


I Have Seen Castles, Broken and Crumbling

by JadeCharmer



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Darcy's kind of smart about people, Developing Relationship, F/M, Female Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, More tags to be added, Mutant Darcy Lewis, Mutant Rights, Plotty, Sexual Content, WWII era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 01:09:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeCharmer/pseuds/JadeCharmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After her somewhat life-changing encounter with a Norse God in the desert, Darcy ends up at the forefront of the Battle of New York fighting jet-ski riding aliens, along with the X-Men and some group that nobody knows anything about. Of course, her absolute crap luck of finding herself in messed up situations, this one of her own making with a little help from the tesseract, comes through and crash lands her in 1942 version of New York.</p><p>With little other choice, Darcy puts her skills to use and finds herself as a pilot for the Women Airforce Service Pilots (WASP), transporting planes and soldiers, including one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. And, as she soon learns, where James Barnes is, trouble soon follows in the form of Captain Rogers and the Howling Commandos.</p><p>A Darcy/Bucky story, but also, and mostly, a Darcy putting her life back together after everything falls apart story. Because when push comes to shove and Darcy's back is up against the metaphorical wall, she's going to come back swinging with a vengeance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this story for awhile and finally decided to post it. It's not completed, yet, but outlined to an insane amount, along with notes for a sequel. Because it's always fun to try to bite off more than you can chew, right?
> 
> Just as a note, definitely AU, but also an attempt to merge multiple universes (X-Men, Avengers, move and comic-verse, etc) under one nice umbrella, at least in the background of the story.

As she rides the elevator down to the ground level from the Bourke and Hamilton offices, Darcy can’t help but bounce a little on her feet in excitement. At least she had planned ahead for this afternoon and worn flats instead of her customary heels to work. Heels, gorgeous though they are, can be a bitch on a normal day, never mind a day where she’s slated to meet up with the two of the X-Men for a test flight. X-Men on the whole, Darcy has found, seem to attract trouble, generally the kind that involves running, screaming, and mayhem, which, totally not conducive to heels, no matter how many cop shows you see with the lead female detective chasing down a criminal in five inch heels. Maybe if you practiced enough, you’d nail it, but Darcy isn’t willing to sacrifice any of her shoes to the cause of finding out simply for curiosity.

She ignores the annoyed glares of her fellow passengers as the elevator stops yet again on another floor, the full capacity eliciting a groan from the waiting crowd. The work day was obviously already having taken a toll on everyone even though it was only noon. Eventually, someone starts jabbing the door closed button as soon as they reach a floor and, finally, Darcy is able to make her escape into the lobby. The other black-suited, stereotypical 9 to 5ers look like they had their souls sucked out already anyway, so she didn’t really have much merit for their judgment or glares. Out of consideration for her fellow coworkers, she did resist yelling ‘Freedom,’ a la Braveheart, so she is going to chalk that up as her contribution to playing well with others this week. Go team.

Darcy quickly hails a cab and gives the driver directions to a private airfield on the outskirts of Manhatten. A glance at the clock on the dash tells her that, if traffic was slightly forgiving, she would be there just before Cyclops and Storm were set to arrive. With a brief word to the cabbie, she settles back for the ride, her foot still dancing in anticipation. It’d been too long since she’d been able to go flying and Scott was bringing down one of their new smaller planes, based off the Blackbird, for her to rub her greedy hands all over.

It was nearing the end of her fourth month working for Bourke and Hamilton, a job she took in New York immediately after her graduation from Culver, Summa Cum Laude, thank you very much. With her shiny new Political Science degree clenched in one hand and a whole crap ton of uncertainty firmly clasped in the other, Darcy had delayed her acceptance to Colombia Law. While her life had never been exactly normal, what with her little mutant gene and spending most of her formative years attending Xavier’s school, her run in with a literal God of Thunder had kind of turned her world on its head. And then fucked it sideways, all without even paying for dinner first. 

Before her last semester at Culver, she spent a few weeks back at Xavier’s after the whole bad transformer autobot Destroyer in the New Mexico desert thing blew over, an event which kind of messed with her identity, purpose in life, and basically her whole sense of what the hell she was doing. Just the little things, obviously. The professor, as zen as always after his return from the almost dead, which was a story in and of itself, merely took her presence in stride, and welcomed her back to the fold while she sorted things out in her head. 

Of course, she had planned on being able to have some peace and quiet at Xavier’s while she figured out her life. Or, at least as much quiet as you can at a super secret school of mutants that also doubled as a front for an equally super secret mutant superhero squad. Which, to be honest, isn’t much.

What she didn’t plan on was Scott’s dramatic return from the dead, not that she’s complaining about him apparently following in the steps of Professor X in the whole going against the laws of nature thing. Despite his perpetually strict personality, which certainly clashed with her own, less stick up your ass and do what you want, personality, she had a soft spot for the former teacher who had taught her a thing or two about engines and, later, about planes. With Scott’s return came Wolverine’s reappearance from wherever he had vanished after the whole showdown on Alcatraz Island with Magneto. 

After having to be the one to kill Jean on Alcatraz Island, Wolverine said little to any of the team once back at the mansion. Darcy, who was already at Culver at this point, had heard from Rogue after the fact that he had merely packed a bag, said goodbye to the few people he conversed with, stole another one of Scott’s bikes, and drove off. They hadn’t heard from him until he drove back up through the gates, lit up a cigar, and immediately found the beer in the fridge.

Scott, still in his hospital bed after being recovered from Alkali Lake, had not been impressed.

Kitty Pryde had commented that it was the weirdest ass homecoming the mansion had ever seen, with Darcy, Scott, and Wolverine showing up within a month of each other, without any word or signal or secret code to coordinate. Rogue shrugged and said it was just a regular Monday at Mutant High. 

For Darcy, however, the dual returns of Scott and Wolverine made the mansion feel like home again and helped to restore her equilibrium that had been shaken in New Mexico. She started tinkering with Scott in his shop once he was out of the Med Bay, pulling apart the motor of the bike Logan had abused to baby it back to health. Wolverine, who had developed a soft spot for Xavier’s students despite his best efforts, made sure to snag her away multiple times to work on her hand to hand combat, especially after he heard about her encounter with Loki. An encounter which was supposed to be top secret and one that she was bound by a half-dozen confidentiality clauses to not speak of, but apparently Wolverine, the surliest man in the mansion, had contacts. Who knew?

During her original time at Xavier’s, before going off to college, Darcy had spent most of her training time with Wolverine, when he was around, that is, since they both had the same type of mutation. While she doesn’t have the metal skeleton due to the distinct lack of experimental testing in her past, she still possesses a remarkable healing factor coupled with enhanced reflexes and strength. Working with Wolverine had allowed her to push herself, and her healing ability, since he wasn’t one to hold back in a combat environment. Her reflexes and strength, which, at one time, were pretty damn impressive, were now nowhere near as finely tuned as Wolverine’s, though, or Sabertooth’s, who also had similar abilities, since the most activity she did in college were her physical education prerequisites and the occasional yoga class on the weekend when she was feeling particularly ambitious.

Unfortunately, even during at her time at Xavier’s before college, her combat training had been that of a regular mutant student. Admittedly, that was much more than the average high schooler received, but it was much less than the training that students like Kitty, Rogue, and Bobby Drake undertook since she had been undecided at that point in time if she would ever actually join the X-Men team or just help behind the scenes. Regardless of her actual training, though, needless to say, the healing factor had come in very handy during the attack by the Destroyer. 

Even with the Destroyer, though, which is the closest she’s come to severe injury, Darcy hadn’t pushed her healing factor to the limits that Logan had over the course of his life. As a result, the extent of her abilities were still up for debate, though some educated guesses could be made. Privately, Darcy hoped she would never be put in a situation to find out. 

Wolverine, however, seemed to feel pretty much the exact opposite and demonstrated this by continually barging headfirst into situations as though he had a death wish. Part of Darcy wonders if it’s because he’s managed to cheat death so many times. That has to take a toll on a person, mentally, even if the body recovers physically. All she knows is that the invulnerability doesn’t play as big of a factor as some might think. Yeah, it’s definitely a factor because nobody can be that reckless without a certain amount of arrogance towards their longevity, but that can’t be the only factor.

Still, she sees the shadows in his eyes after missions when the team returns to the mansion, battered and bruised. No matter how much Scott might rail on him for his recklessness as the pair storm through the mansion hallways, heedless of who might be eavesdropping, Darcy knows there was another driving force behind Logan’s actions. She just doesn’t know what it was. If she were to hazard a guess, it almost seemed like he was hoping to meet his ultimate challenge. To find something that he finally couldn’t walk away from, something that would let him rest, let him escape the demons that chase him as a consequence of his actions. 

Sometimes, she wonders if, with her mutation, she will live long enough to feel the same challenge, the same desire. She wonders if she’ll carry the same shadows and marks that Wolverine does by that age, or if she’ll manage to live an easier life. Given her track record for the past year, it isn’t looking too promising.

As the cab nears the private airfield, Darcy pushes her thoughts aside and feels her anticipation pick back up when she sees the planes gliding in to land. When the cab pulls to a stop, she quickly hands over the money to the driver, hefty tip included, and easily makes her way through the small crowd to the white-haired woman already standing patiently in the lobby of the building. 

“Scott didn’t want to leave the plane alone,” Ororo greets with a bit of exasperation as she envelops Darcy in a warm hug. Darcy sinks easily into the embrace, a tiny feeling of home filling her. “He’s very protective of it, still.”

Darcy laughs as she confesses, “I’m actually really surprised he was willing to even bring it here. Totally thought it might have been a few too many hits to the head in the Danger Room, but I was definitely going to take advantage.”

“I think it was more along the lines of giving him yet another excuse to play with his new toy,” Ororo replies dryly as they walk out of the lobby towards the tarmac. “Even if that means he has to share it with others.”

“As long as I get to reap the benefits, I’m not going to argue,” Darcy counters as they walk out the doors to the airfield. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll mock him about his unhealthy and unbalanced relationship with the Blackbird. I’ll mock him, a lot,” she emphasizes, eyes wide, “but not argue.”

“Well, let us take advantage of that brief respite while we can before the bickering between the two of you starts back up.”

Darcy grinned. “Missed you, too, Ororo.” She really had. While she hadn’t been able to spend much time with Ororo, not having her for a teacher in any of her classes during Darcy’s brief time in Westchester, she could appreciate the other woman’s calm comfort. Plus, Darcy might have taken a page or two out of the Ororo Monroe handbook in How to Wrangle Wayward Strays in order to work with Jane Foster and Eric Selvig. Anything that can be used on a school of unruly teenage mutants can totally be effective towards two absent-minded and scarily brilliant scientists intent on ripping a hole in the universe .

They continued chatting as they walked, Ororo catching Darcy up on the recent events in Westchester while Darcy chatted about her coworkers and the few case details she could share without violating client confidentiality from the law firm. 

“I’m glad the Professor suggested it,” Darcy added. “It’s a good way to figure out if this is actually what I want to do instead of just the glamorized image in my head from watching one too many lawyer shows.”

“If you do decide this is the path for you, I know both the Professor and I would appreciate your help, or even just your perspective, as we move forward with mutant rights debate in the Senate.”

Darcy nodded, tentatively accepting the proposal. She might not be able to contribute much initially, but the Professor was always good about offering opportunities to his students. She would definitely do her best to live up to the expectation. “Even without a license to practice law, I’m game for at least offering ideas and strategy.” She taps her head as she continues, “Some of this knowledge from long nights pouring over books last minute has to be useful for more than a surprise pop quiz. How have the Senators reacted to the news that Worthington Labs’ miracle cure wasn’t so miraculous?”

Ororo sighs. “Not well. It’s put even mutant supporters on edge, the fact that mutant DNA can evolve quickly enough to compensate for the serum. If the political complications weren’t enough, you can practically see the gleam in the scientists’ eyes as they process through the ramifications and how they can use that. There’s talk of studies to explore the possible long-term uses of mutant DNA.”

“You mean for genetic disorders, regular old disease and plagues, weapons or what?”

“Probably all of the above,” Ororo acknowledges. The woman’s expression is as haggard and as careworn as Darcy has ever observed. “In that aspect, we’re trying to keep quiet on certain mutant abilities, especially those like yours and Logan’s” Ororo adds, tipping her head in Darcy’s direction, “until this is all sorted out. It’s too new of a development for people to be thinking with ethics instead of greed and it worries me how far some people seem to be willing to go already, especially when they consider mutants to be second class citizens.” 

“Unlimited healing does seem pretty shiny when you’re staring down the barrel of all the diseases we have running rampant,” Darcy comments. The thought of the possible good that can be done doesn’t give her comfort, though. Unlimited healing means they can just do more to her without worry about damaging their specimen. Because that’s all she would be to them. A specimen. Not a person.

“It does,” Ororo agrees. “But at what cost?”

Ororo seems to hesitate, as if there is more that she wants to add. Darcy tips her head, questioning. “What am I missing?”

Ororo sighs. “Mutant disparity has, unfortunately, always been around. While Logan may not have his memories, the professor, though he was only a child, does, and has mentioned some of the atrocities that occurred in regards to mutant experimentation during the second world war. It’s the only other time in history where we have specific information about the experimentation and the reason we have this information is because of first-hand accounts.”

“Magneto,” Darcy guesses. She’s heard a bit in passing, nothing that reveals confidences, more just comments around the mansion after a mission with the older mutant that this has always been an issue with him. 

Ororo nods. “Anyway,” she brushes aside, before Darcy can question her further. “This is a topic for another day, one that Charles and I would certainly enjoy discussing with you the next time you visit.”

“You’re worse at guilt-tripping than a mother sometimes,” Darcy grouses, even though she knows a visit back to Westchester is long overdue. Finding time in her schedule is an entirely different matter, however. It had been months since she had spoken to most of the X-Men and even longer since she had visited. She’d been pretty horrible about talking with Jane, too, though they both tried to keep in contact. The other woman seemed to drop off the face of the earth recently, with all of Darcy’s calls giving her a robotic voice informing her the number had been disconnected. It wouldn’t be the first time Jane forgot to pay her cell bill, though.

To be honest, her life had sort of turned into a depressing state of affairs, mostly consisting of going to and from work and coming home to an empty apartment at night. There might be a few nights where she’d grab drinks with some of her more tolerable coworkers, but those usually ended with fending off grabby hands from entitled assholes because, of course, the group had to go to a bar with networking opportunities. AKA, a bar Darcy would normally never step foot in because of the sheer amount of pretension choking the air. Her one-time suggestion of the Irish bar a few blocks down was met with enough critical looks that she immediately backed off, not wanting them to taint her favorite bar.

She’s about to accept Ororo’s offer since it would be good to spend some time away when she stops still in her tracks, having finally caught a glimpse of the plane. Her jaw drops as she takes in the sleek plane, small but obviously powerful. She spins to face an amused Ororo, hands clasped in front of her chest. “Oh my god, I want to marry her.”

Ororo chuckles. “I think you might have to get in line. Scott will certainly be first to defend her honor.”

Darcy barely hears the response, however, as she is already jogging towards the plane, eyes wide with wonder. She’d heard some of the specs when the plane was initially in development, but she had been at Culver at the time so her information was a little limited. The project had continued after Scott’s supposed death, with Ororo taking over working with the development team. The end result was a beautiful stealth attack plane, lending another ace up the sleeve to the X-Men arsenal. 

“We’re calling her Nighthawk,” Scott introduces, pride coming through in spades in his voice. He walks from around the other side of the plane to where Darcy is standing, devouring the smooth lines of the newly christened Nighthawk. “Ideally, we’ll only have to use her for small party transport instead of having to send the Blackbird around the world and back, but she’ll be able to hold her own, if push comes to shove.”

“I want,” Darcy breathes, still in awe. Her fingers itch to stroke the gleaming metal, to run her hands all over the beautiful craftsmanship. “So much.”

Darcy whirls around as a though occurs to her, jabbing a finger in the direction of the brown-haired man. “You better not be teasing me, Scott Summers. This better not be an, ‘oh, look at this pretty new toy, isn’t she special,’ and then you fly away on some mission that all of a sudden just came up.”

“That happened once, Darcy,” Scott retorts, a bit defensively, if you ask her. “We have no missions, no emergency mutant pick-up. Even Logan is at the mansion and not out causing an outbreak of redneck bar fights.”

Darcy smirks in amusement at the exasperation in his tone over Logan before her brain catches on his words. Surprised, she glances from Ororo and back to Scott, brow furrowed. “Really? It’s been that quiet? It’s never that quiet,” she says emphatically.

“I know.”

Even though the situation has her concerned, she can’t help but grin at Scott’s growled tone. “Going a bit stir-crazy, aren’t you?” she teases.

“No,” Scott says, definitely defensive this time. Darcy held his gaze for several moments, eye brow raised in skepticism. Ororo stands off to the side, watching the pair with an amused look even as she subtly nods her head behind Scott’s back, confirming Darcy’s assessment. Scott must have caught the movement out of the corner of his eye because he shoots the dark-skinned woman a dirty look before turning back to Darcy, his shoulders slumped forward. “Ok, fine,” he admits, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “But it’s more frustration than boredom.”

“How so?” Darcy asks.

She can see the debate on Scott’s face over how much to reveal. Darcy doesn’t say anything, though, mostly because experience has taught her that speaking up before he processes through all the variables will make him lock up. She expects to be rebuffed, especially since she isn’t actually part of the X-Men team, so she’s surprised when Scott speaks.

“We’ve heard about attacks, small ones, in various locations around the world. There was one in Germany just this week. The strange thing is,” Scott adds, “they all seem to have been shut down before they started. We managed to arrive on scene a couple hours after getting notice, only to find the attack over and a clean-up crew already in place.”

Ah, Darcy thinks. It clicks now, why Scott is willing to share. There’s only one agency with the manpower and an interest that caters to odd events like men falling out of the sky looking for hammers. “You think SHIELD is part of all these attacks.”

“I think they’re part of covering it up,” Scott agrees. “What started the attacks, though, I have no idea. Logan’s tried a couple different times to talk to the people he knows in SHIELD, but he’s getting stonewalled.”

“Did he try negotiating with the claws?” Darcy suggests helpfully, knowing the mere mention of Logan’s lack of negotiation skills is enough to get Scott’s hackles up.

Sure enough, Scott gives her a sour look. “He was on the phone. Even Wolverine can only do so much damage verbally. Lucky for us,” he added sarcastically with what Darcy imagined was an eye roll, but couldn’t tell for certain with the quartz glasses. His arms cross across his chest, his jaw set in a firm line. “We already have a hard enough time with SHIELD’s refusal to communicate with us without Wolverine deciding to act like an ass because he isn’t getting his way.”

Darcy senses a full-on rant brewing and braces her shoulders back in preparation. Experience has taught that having Logan and Scott both bored and cooped up in the same house for an extended period of time led to nothing but bickering and misery for all around them. It also led to the Danger Room being used pretty much nonstop. Fortunately, Ororo smoothly cuts in before Scott could get any further along in what could possibly be a long and extensive rant. 

“However,” Ororo interjects, “we know it isn’t a diplomacy issue.” At Scott’s soft scoff, Ororo pauses to shoot the man a pointed look before amending her statement. “Or, at least, if it is,” she allows, “we aren’t alone in the communication black-out. Scott and I spoke with Reed and Sue Richards.” Darcy knows she should recognize the names, but for the life of her, she can’t seem to place them. “They’re part of the Fantastic Four,” Ororo clarifies upon seeing Darcy’s confusion. Recognition clicks as Darcy remembers the news coverage years before about the astronauts exposed to some type of space radiation. The story had been quickly buried and little was heard from them, at least on a national news front, after the mutant controversy started to take center stage. “Despite their attempts to contact SHIELD, they’ve also been blocked.”

“Well, at least SHIELD being a bunch of dicks has brought the X-Men and the Fantastic Four closer,” Darcy comments. Even with keeping her tone light, she can’t help but have a bit of her frustration at how far the shady organization has seemed to invade her life seep through her words. First Thor, then the strange destruction at Culver with the green monster that everyone on campus knows about but doesn’t talk about, and now a communications black-out for all superhero teams. It seemed SHIELD really didn’t know how to play nice with others. “Nothing like hating on the cool kids with the unlimited sketchy funding and Men In Black wannabe agents to bring the nerds together.”

Ororo merely hums. Darcy isn’t sure she can say the other woman is complete agreement with the wording of her assessment. The spirit of it, though, seems to be spot-on. Scott, however, is looking antsy and seems to have decided it’s time for a change in topic. It isn’t surprising since Darcy is kind of shocked he’s been willing to talk this much on the subject. Normally the leader of the X-Men is a stickler for operating on a need to know basis and it has been a well-established fact that not being a member of the team means you definitely don’t need to know. 

Well, she compromises as she sees Scott glance over his shoulder once again at the plane, either he’s clamming up or he’s decided that he’s waited long enough to show off his new toy.

“Anyway,” he says, clapping his hands together to draw Darcy’s attention back. “There’s not much we can do about that at this point anyway. Besides, that’s not the mission of the day.”

Darcy groaned. “No, just, no, for once, this is not a mission, this is for fun. Fun, Scott,” she emphasized before gesturing behind her at the plane. “We’re going to take your new toy and we’re going to see how pretty she is when I make her dance. For fun.” 

“For fun,” Scott agreed, a smile breaking out on his face. He gestured towards the plane. “After you, then.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all mistakes are mine. Thank you for reading!

Once in the plane, Darcy makes quick work of her pre-flight procedure, running through the tasks like old habit. Scott has to point out a few of the new features, but, overall, her familiarity with the Blackbird translates well to the similarly styled Nighthawk. 

“Ready?” she asks as finalizes her preparations. She glances over her shoulder to see Ororo shoot her a thumbs up, already buckled into one of the two seats behind the captain and co-captain chairs. Scott gives her the final go-ahead and, once she gets clearance from the tower, Darcy starts the plane down the runway. The engines hum in a low, throaty purr; it’s constrained power fighting to be let loose. Once she’s cleared from the towers, Darcy throttles the engine with a grin, letting the power loose as the plane takes off at a vertical angle into the air. Once air born, she pushes the throttle forward, the plane easily gliding on the currents as it cuts sharply through the air, slick and agile. She barely resists reaching out to pet the dash in adoration. Scott gives her a knowing grin, though, cheeky bastard, which just won’t do.

“I bet Wolverine could get his bi-monthly beer run to Canada done in half the time with this thing,” Darcy comments with a sly look. “Might have to add a cooler compartment, though.” The smirk is immediately gone from Scott’s expression as he practically stares daggers at her. She’s not sure what’s more insulting; Wolverine with his hands all over Scott’s baby or the idea that Scott’s baby could possibly be inferior in any capacity.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Once in the air, Scott starts going over the specs and special features, and holy shit, they really loaded this thing down with weapons, given what she’s hearing. Hearing and seeing, though, are two completely different things. 

“It might do,” she informs him in her best nonchalant tone before sending a wicked grin Ororo’s way. “Won’t know until she’s put through the paces, though.”

“Outside city limits,” Scott orders. “Preferably over water.”

Darcy quirks an eyebrow. “So you can swim to safety?”

This earns her a reproachful look, but, it’s not the first one she’s recieved from the X-Men leader and it definitely won’t be the last. “So there aren’t any witnesses.”

Darcy grins even as she purposely ignores Scott’s intent. “Ominous, Cyc. I like it.”

The older man sighs, obviously exasperated, his tone weary. “Just get us out of the city.”

Darcy does just that, anxious to put the plane through its paces now that she has Scott’s tentative approval. Or, at least, not outright objection, which is pretty much the same thing. It takes less than half an hour before they’re out over open water, far enough away from the New York shore to not garner any attention. 

“Ready?” Scott asks.

“Oh, sweetheart, I was born ready.”

“Never say that to me again. Or anyone. Ever.” Scott turns in his seat just enough to signal Ororo with his hand, giving her the go ahead. “Do your thing, Storm.”

Without looking, Darcy knows Ororo’s eyes have turned to that ominous white color that she’s seen so many times on the Danger Room viewing monitors. The winds pick up, but with a few alterations to her flight pattern, the plane holds steady with little effort. She’s about to tell Ororo that she’s going to need to kick it up a few notches when Darcy sees what the real challenge is up ahead. In the distance, far enough away to not damage the plane, large hail stones, few and far between, are falling from the sky. It’s an amazing testament to Ororo’s control for her to be able to limit the size and distance of the stones. 

Darcy grins a challenge at Cyclops. “How’s your shooting?”

Scott grants her a withering look. “Please. Try and keep up.”

With that, they’re off. It takes a while for Darcy to get the hang of it, but soon she’s able to get in her shots just as well as Scott. He still has the advantage from early, though. An advantage Darcy is determined to eliminate. Without warning, she pushes the plane forward in a quick thrust, directly into the path of the storm. With a sharp turn, she’s able to maneuver the plane around the falling ice stones, quickly taking out those directly in front of her. Well, Scott gets some of them, at least after his initial exclamation of surprise. The boy is quick on his feet, though, and the tally is still in his favor by the end. 

She’s about to demand a rematch when Scott’s entire body suddenly goes stock still in the copilot’s seat. Darcy shoots a worried glance to Ororo, who is watching Scott attentively.

“It’s most likely the Professor,” the other woman explains, though her eyes never leave Scott’s form. Needless to say, her words don’t ease Darcy’s worries. For the professor to get this kind of telepathic distance, he has to be using Cerebro. And if the professor felt it was urgent enough to immediately contact Storm and Cyclops, it was definitely news of the big bad destruction variety. 

“The professor said there are aliens attacking New York.” Scott’s voice is riddled with disbelief as he relays the information. Darcy feels a heavy weight sinking in her chest. She really, really hopes it isn’t Thor’s brother again, because that dude was enough of a pain in the ass the first time. Everyone knows the bad guys always come back with better toys the second time around.

Darcy is already turning the plane back around to fly back to land at Scott’s words. They aren’t too far out and, if she pushes the engine hard to the mainland, she should be able to cut their flight time in half. Scott relays that, since information is still rolling in right now about the location of the attack, the plan is to fly back to the airfield. Hopefully the professor will have something for them by then.

As they near the coast, however, the big gaping fucking hole in the sky over the mainland is the first thing that catches her attention. Ororo’s gasp means that she’s seen it, too. It’s not like it’s easy to miss. There’s a bright blue beam shooting straight towards it and, even from this distance, they can see dark shapes flying out.

“So, maybe not as far-fetched as you thought,” Darcy comments before slanting him a look out of the corner of her eye. “Looks like you’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Scott ignores her comment, probably for the best since it was a little snarky and definitely ill-timed, but it’s what she does best when confronted with implausible things. Instead, he passes on the information over the X-Men communicators to Beast, who responds back with a burst of noise over Scott’s headset. “Apparently there seems to be a ground team, but we don’t recognize them,” Scott relays. “The only recognizable figure at this point in time is Iron Man. Either way, we’re going in to help them. The rest of the team is scrambling and on their way in with the Blackbird.”

Darcy nods and sets their course, bypassing the trajectory for the airfield and instead sends them on the way straight to downtown Manhattan. She can push the thrusters while they’re out over the water to cut down the time, but once she’s in the city, she’s going to have to slow her approach to maneuver around the buildings and find a landing spot.

Ororo leans forward in her seat. “Have the Fantastic Four been contacted to lend assistance?”

Scott shakes his head. “Hank’s been trying to make contact, but Reed and Sue are out of the country. Johnny isn’t answering his phone, which isn’t surprising since he seems to ignore all calls when he sees any X-Men number pop up. Ben doesn’t seem to be picking up, either, which is surprising.”

As they near the city, they get a closer look at the attackers. The firepower is definitely going to be a problem, Darcy notes as she watches a blast from one of the weapons clear almost an entire street. Their weaponry is more advanced and, even with the eventual addition of the entire X-Men team, the invaders have an insane number of troops. 

“Fly in low,” Scott orders. He’s taken up the guns once again, shooting the stragglers that he can out of the sky. “Over there,” he indicates a spot in the middle of the street, already clear and barricaded from all ends. “That’ll do for a landing spot.”

Darcy flies the plane to smooth stop, hovering before landing gently with a small thump. As soon as the glass shield protecting the top of the plane retracts, Ororo is flying out of her seat to the sky. Darcy starts to turn off the engines, readying herself to follow the two into the fight, when she feels Scott’s hand tighten around her wrist.

“We’re going to need air support,” he says, gesturing at the chaos above them. Lightning and high winds are already picking up around Storm as she starts making a dent in the troop numbers, but more just keep pouring out of the black hole of doom. “Ororo is going to be able to do some damage, but we need the additional fire power up there to keep as many enemies as possible from making it to the ground. Once they can start taking hostages, it’s going to make it even more difficult to get them locked down.”

“What about you?” Darcy challenges. “You’re going to go all lone cowboy on us with no back up?” Because she remembers how that ended last time, with Scott’s death. Definitely not something she cares to have repeated, even though she’s far from being an asset on the ground. Unlike some people, apparently, she knows her limitations.

“The rest of the X-Men are less than five minutes out. I’m sure Wolverine will find himself in the thick of it before you even get the plane off the ground. Don’t worry, we’ve got this.” Scott shoots her a reassuring grin. “You’ve trained for this, you’ve logged the hours. Take this as your one freebie to have the plane by yourself to do all the damage you want.”

Even though part of her wonders if he’s just trying to get her out of the worst of the ground action, where she would be more of a liability due to her recent lack of training time, she can’t help but feel pleased at his confidence in her abilities. It might end up being a small role she plays in the grand scheme of things, because, hello, massive troops of alien invaders, but Darcy’s going to do everything she can to help. “Well, when you put it that way, get the hell out of the plane so I can go kick some ass.”

“Good luck.” With his parting words, Scott braces a hand on the edge of the plane cockpit and levers himself over the side, landing smoothly on the ground. Darcy watches his back as he clears from the plane, already engaging the aliens with his optic beams. When he’s far enough away, she fires up the engines again and pulls the plane into a vertical ascent.

Once in the air, Darcy immediately picks off a couple of fliers who had been heading on a trajectory course straight towards Scott. The fliers break apart easily under the firepower of the Nighthawk, but the pieces of debris rain down on the buildings and street, leaving tiny fires in their wake. 

After that, Darcy quickly finds herself engaged in battle after battle with the tiny fighters, picking off as many as she can with the guns. Storm is off in the distance to her left, using hail and hurricane force winds to send the fliers tumbling away like toys. The alien pilots tumble to the ground while their little flight scooters crash and burn against the sides of the buildings and onto the streets below.

Lightning suddenly lights up on Darcy’s right and she has to do a double-take to make sure it isn’t Storm. Instead, she sees a familiar red cape shoot past her plane and into the thick of a group of fliers. Darcy finds out that, not surprisingly, you can really get some distance with the aliens when you hit them head on with a magical hammer. She grins as Thor flies off to another group, easily taking them out as well. With a press to the plane’s comm button, she’s connected to the rest of the X-Men.

“Hey, Storm, looks like you have a new buddy,” she fills in, picking off another stray flier as it dives in front of her plane. “His name is Thor, try to play nice. He kind of has a thing about challenging people he perceives as insulting his honor. Whole duels for honor, that kind of thing. It just gets messy and awkward.”

“I shall do my best to act as a comrade, and not as a threat,” Storm promised. Darcy grinned. Yeah, those two probably would get along pretty well, considering Ororo’s sense of propriety and honor was pretty much on par with Thor’s. And Darcy has heard rumors of her being worshiped as a weather goddess in Africa at one point in time, so they could probably totally swap stories about that, too. Because apparently that’s a thing now, being surrounded by people with tales of godhood.

“Thor?” Scott’s stunned exclamation comes over the comms loud and clear. “Like Norse mythological God of Thunder Thor? That Thor?”

Darcy shrugs as she dips the plane down to aim at the new group of fliers. “Or alien entity once worshiped as a god by old as hell Norwegians Thor. He’s good stuff, though, especially after you introduce him to the fabulous world of all you can eat pancakes. Mention my name if you run into him, will you? He totally owes me a boilermaker.”

She can hear Scott’s heavy sigh over the comms even as Wolverine, apparently now on scene, chimes in. “Name the place. I could use a beer and a whiskey after this. And not one of those fucking hipster bars, either. I want a Molson.”

“Deal, even though you’re the only one who drinks that Canadian crap,” Darcy agrees, lining up her sights and shooting two more of the fliers out of the sky.

“Well, now that we all have our social lives sorted out, can we go back to dealing with the aliens attacking the large metropolitan area full of people? Or did you want to set up an ice cream social for next weekend while we’re at it?” Scott asks dryly.

Wolverine is the one to reply, of course. “Far as I see, you’re the one still standing around. We gonna keep talking or we gonna kill some aliens?” She can hear Wolverine’s voice go distant as he turns away from his communicator to yell in the background. “Colossus! Get yer metal ass over here. I’m feeling a little fastball special for these guys. My way of welcoming them to the planet.”

After that, banter drops off as the attacks increase. Sure enough, Darcy can soon see Wolverine flying through the sky with a battle cry, claws straight out and into an alien, undoubtedly courtesy of Colossus. Neither one could resist the opportunity to bring out that maneuver. Not that she can really blame Piotr for taking every opportunity to throw Wolverine around like a rag doll that he can. She’s pretty sure that’s the only reason Scott doesn’t get after them about showboating.

Coordinates and calls for assistance come out over the comm and she tries to help where she can, but she’s soon getting bogged down just as much as the rest of the team. It gets a little more dicey when the troops finally start to wise up and begin attacking Darcy from behind while she’s preoccupied with the fliers in front of her, forcing her into more and more drastic evasive maneuvers. Eventually, with a line of fliers catching up behind her, she banks hard left in an attempt to lose them. The sharp response of the plane knocks a few of the fliers into the sides of the buildings, unable to keep up with the turns. The rest are forced to pull back enough for her to double back and let loose the guns, knocking them out of the fight. 

As she takes off once again to take out a few stragglers who have managed to escape the attempted impromptu containment radius, Darcy catches a glimpse of what appears to be a giant green man hopping from building to building, taking out the alien troops with a hand grasp or a stray strike as he does so. She wonders if this is the illusive destructor of Culver that nobody talks about. Either way, between Thor and Big Green, it looks like SHIELD is bringing all their big dark secrets out to play. Could be they were part of the team in Germany that Scott talked about earlier. Seems like a safe guess at this point in time. Though, if Thor has been on Earth that long and hasn’t talked to Jane, there’s going to be a shit storm of epic proportions to deal with when this whole thing is over, from both Darcy and Jane. Probably Eric, too, though he’d be less yelling in a screechy voice about it and more just disappointed face that hurt you down to your soul. 

As Darcy once again dives back into the fray, she can’t help but send a quick mental thanks to Scott for bringing the Nighthawk plane. If she had the full-sized Blackbird, there’s no way she’d be able to corner sharper than the aliens, never even mind fitting the damn plane between the buildings. Even now, it’s a tight squeeze to make it around the sharp corners of the buildings, but with each quick turn, she loses a few to the rubble. Unfortunately, for each of the baddies that she manages to shake, two more decide to join in the chase.

A quick glance down at the dash shows her screen is lighting up and pinging like crazy with more inbound enemies. She can keep trying to corner and lose them, but they’re catching on to her tactics and have started to put enough distance between themselves and her plane that they have time to bank wide when they see her turn. As a result, she’s losing fewer and fewer with each corner. 

Deciding she needs a new tactic, Darcy pulls back hard on the throttle, sending the plane straight up in the air. The weird alien guys are left scrambling behind her, giving her a few moments to survey the land. Without the buildings blocking her view, she can see the sharp blue streak of light shooting straight up into the air from the top of the newly built Stark Tower. The massive black hole they saw from off the coast is more clearly defined now that she’s closer and she can see a starry sky peeking through the gaping opening that’s floating at the top of the blue light. It appears the blue streak is an energy beam, feeding the hole. 

“Anyone have any info on the big blue beam of doom yet?” Darcy radios.

There’s a crackle before Ororo answers. “SHIELD has advised the device is called a tesseract. Thought to be a gift from Odin ages ago, it was both recovered and subsequently lost during World War II. SHIELD wants it to remain intact. However, we’ve been advised by Iron Man to take any and all means to deactivate it.”

Darcy smirks. She’s seen snippets of that man on television in for a congressional hearing. There’s no way he was that polite about it. “Was that his exact wording?”

Ororo sighs. “He said that we could destroy it or he would send out someone named ‘Dummy’ with a fire extinguisher to do the job. Either way, he was adamant that SHIELD not recover the device. There seems to be a heavy amount of distrust between them.”

“Gotcha. Obviously SHIELD has risen to new levels of sketchy if their own team is sabotaging them, but that’s probably a story for another time. Like, sometime after the post-victory celebrations,” Darcy adds. “We’ll figure it out. In the meantime, let’s see if we can make his wish come true.”

She can see Thor has taken up residence on top of the spire of a building almost under the black hole and is playing Rock ‘em, Shock ‘em, along with Big Green, for each ship that comes out of the black hole. Figuring that’s as good a plan as any, she makes a beeline straight for the blue energy beam, the merry band of misfits following right behind her.

She can see the moment that Thor realizes she’s coming right for him. His eyes widen and he immediately starts swinging his hammer, shooting branches of lighting all around her small plane, taking out several of the aliens on her tail. A loud roar sounds off to the other side, practically vibrating Darcy in her seat with the resonance. There’s a blur of motion that can only be Big Green as he leap frogs off a building where he was crouching like freaking King Kong, onto the back of one, two, then three different alien dudes, before hopping onto the side of another building. 

Darcy dubs him immediate parkour champion, no contest.

Since it’s worked well so far, Darcy continues to use her plane to act as bait, lining up the aliens for Thor and Big Green to take out while she shoots the strays that try to sneak up behind them. This approach works for a while, but they’re quickly becoming overwhelmed, especially when Thor leaps off and decides to jump on some giant floating whale thing, which, she doesn’t even know at this point in time. It seems like she’s finally hit the limit on how surreal her life has become when there are floating metal whales in Manhattan with a Norse god riding them while bellowing the most gleeful battle cry in existence.

Big Green has disappeared, too, and Darcy realizes she’s left alone with at least a dozen of the flying scooter aliens circling around her. She pulls up once more, giving her some room to maneuver, and forcing the swarm to follow her. Once she knows they’re behind her, she heads straight for the blue beam. If it’s an energy beam, which, hello, powering big huge black hole, definitely some sort of power thingy, there’s a better than average chance it’ll destroy anything that passes through it. Or, at least, there’s a better chance than she would have on her own up against this number. Decision made, because what is she really out trying at this point, Darcy presses hard on the throttle once again, forcing the alien guys to increase their speed to keep up. 

“C’mon, c’mon, a little more, sweetheart,” she chants, looking at her tachometer. The Nighthawk’s engines whine around her as they’re pushed to the max, but she can see the alien guys keeping up on her radar. “Almost there, almost there.” 

The blue energy beam looms straight ahead and she knows she has to time this just right. With a sharp jerk, she pushes the throttle for one last burst of power and jerks the plane hard to bank left. Several of the blips disappear off her radar. 

With a loud whoop of victory, she circles the plane back. “Alright boys, since we had so much fun the first time, let’s have another rodeo.” With a wicked grin, she starts to pull back on the throttle so once she has her entourage, she’ll be able to speed up again, when the plane is rocked from the side with an explosion, sending her spiraling. Warnings start blasting in the cabin, the loud klaxons of engine failure blaring over the voice warning her of a sudden decrease in altitude. Darcy wrestles with the throttle, trying to gain back some control of the plane with the remaining engine, but it’s starting to feel like a futile effort. 

The plane continues in dizzying tailspin as Darcy becomes more and more frantic. She’s searching for some way to at least crash without hurting someone else when she finally manages to gain some control. Relief fills her as she straightens out the now smoking plane, just as a second hit comes from the left side. An explosion of bright light rocks the Nighthawk and sends Darcy reeling in her seat despite the safety harness. The plane is completely out of her control now, as the throttle locks up and the engine gives her a pitiful sputter before completely cutting out. She’s dead in the air. Darcy starts frantically flipping switches, attempting to engage the engine when she looks up from the dash and realizes her trajectory. There’s no time to pull the emergency evacuation before her crash. The last thing she sees is a bright blue energy beam hit the nose of her plane.


	3. Chapter Three

Darcy is jarred awake by her body being thrown forward in her seat, the jump belt clenching tight against her chest from the force of her plane hitting the ground. Correction, she realized, blearily looking out the window in an attempt to get some idea of her surroundings. Water. Her plane hitting the water, which, really, way, way better than hitting the ground. Still sucky, but less prone to explosions and death. Well, Darcy mentally amends as she gets a look of the damage to the plane, at least until Cyclops gets a hold of her for hurting his baby.

She’s pretty sure this is so going to be worse than that time Wolverine stole his motorcycle and brought it back in a nice little ball of twisted metal.

With a cringe, both at the image of Cyclop’s rage infuriated face in her mind and from pain radiating from her body, because, water or not, crashing wasn’t exactly landing on cotton balls and pillows, Darcy releases the clip of her belt. Rolling her shoulders, she could already feel the muscles loosening up and the tightening of skin as the few cuts on her face started to heal. Yeah, she’s totally not doing that again. Thank Thor for the mutant gene, even if it can’t cure foolhardiness. Or idiocy. 

Once released from the belt, Darcy pressed the button to open the release hatch, quickly scrambling out. The damaged wreck of a plane is only going to bob for so long before going under. She snags her bag on the way out, holding it high above her head as she goes in the water. She swims on her side, using a poorly formed sidestroke at that, while keeping the bag held high out of the water. Not that it matters much at this point, her phone is probably totally beyond help with how waterlogged it has to be already.

As she makes her way to the side, she starts looking around at the buildings, attempting to find one she recognizes so she can orientate herself. Darcy figures she landed in either the Hudson or the East River, given the location of Stark Tower. Either way, she’s going to need a decontamination shower once this whole thing is said and done. Mutant gene or no mutant gene, there are just some levels of gross you can’t recover from without industrial cleaners.

Once at the embankment, Darcy pulls herself out of the water and up the rocky cliff. The sharp rocks threaten to tear her hands apart, so she’s forced to take her time, picking her way carefully as she climbs. She stumbles to her feet in water logged sneakers upon reaching the paved road curving through what looks like an industrial district. It’s only once she’s on land that she notices the conscious absence of any battle noises. 

Darcy’s eyes immediately start searching the sky. There are no aliens, no giant blue beam, and no gaping black hole of doom looming across the sky. Instead, it’s a crystal clear day, sunny with barely a cloud on the horizon. She wonders if, somehow, her crash into the beam managed to damage it enough to shut it down. Or, much more likely, someone on the ground was able to deactivate the device. Either way, there are sure to be alien troops still on the ground.

She pats down her bag, finally pulling out her phone. Hoping against hope that she managed to avoid water damage, she presses the button to unlock the device. The screen, predictably, stays blank. So much for calling someone or even managing to pull up a simple GPS map. It’s kind of sad, actually, that she’s been in New York for four months and still gets completely and totally lost. Like, could wander around for hours and still not find a familiar landmark lost.

With a sigh, she tosses the phone back in her sopping wet bag. It’s not like it can get more damaged at this point. Besides, she thinks, pulling at the damp top that’s sticking to her skin, she doesn’t really have a dry place to put it. After tugging a few more times to make the top at least a little less indecent, thank god at least it’s a thick fabric or else she’d be giving a free show to anyone, she gives up on her top as a lost cause destined most likely for the trash. Plus, not helping the situation at all, it feels a lot cooler now than it did when she took off this morning with Scott and Ororo. 

Shrugging the bag over her shoulders, Darcy gives a closer look to the buildings around her, but, again, unsurprisingly, she’s unable to recognize her surroundings. Needless to say, the few months she’s lived in New York haven’t been spent in the docks and shipping district. 

What she does know, though, is that Stark Tower is either going to be north or south of her location, based on whichever river she managed to crash. Either way, it basically means she needs to put the river to her back and start walking. Eventually, she’s going to come across a place that’ll let her use their phone or she’ll stumble across all the alien devastation and destruction. Hopefully the former before the latter. 

It takes a few blocks before she even manages to see another soul. Not surprising, even in Manhattan, given the circumstances. What is surprising though, are the clothes the person is wearing. While Darcy herself is totally a fan of having a few throwback outfits, especially with blouses that were made for curves and skirts that can hug her hips without the fabric bulging or bulking out in awkward ways, this man doesn’t look like the typical guy to wear throwback clothes. He has the look of a blue collar worker, though his clothes seem a bit dated, with hard eyes, a grim expression, and hands that, even though she can’t see, she knows are callused. He’s walking with a pronounced limp, though she can see he’s struggling to cover it up. His eyes briefly shoot in her direction and she toys with the idea of calling out to the man, but he saves her from having to make a decision.

“You look lost, miss.”

Darcy pastes on her most complacent grin, all the while gearing herself up for an attack, just in case, whether it be from this man or if the aliens finally decide to come out of hiding. “Just looking for Stark Tower. Got a bit turned around in the attack.”

The man gives her the once over, taking in her still wet but thankfully no longer dripping clothes. “You doing alright? You look like you just got dunked.” 

Darcy thinks of the Nighthawk now sitting at the bottom of the river, with all its highly classified intelligence and technology just waiting to be plundered. It’ll take a salvage crew to recover it, or maybe Nightcrawler, she isn’t sure about the extent of his abilities, since it’s at least 100 feet down, but that doesn’t mean she wants the information of the plane’s location spreading around on the streets. “It’s been a bit of a day,” she deflects before adding wryly, “I think everyone is probably having one of those, though.” Which is, of course, understatement of the year. 

There’s a pause, as if the man is debating about pushing, but, thankfully, he seems to let the issue drop. “Don’t know much about a Stark Tower,” he informs her, scratching his chin. “Stark Expo is in a coupla’ days, though, if that’s what you mean.”

Darcy’s brow furrows. She’d remember hearing about an expo, especially with the way Stark runs his promotions. Not one for subtlety at all, to say the least, considering Iron Man lit up the sky at the last Expo. Plus, you know, the whole mad robot invasion thing after the kick-off of the last Expo. She’s kind of surprised he’d have another one, but, then again, he seems like the kind of person who taunts danger. She’s pretty sure she saw him flying into the mouth of one of the space whales before she crashed.

Surprisingly, the man is still waiting expectantly for a reply, rather than having wandered off after the obviously crazy girl hasn’t responded. It’s more charm and concern than she’s come to expect from strangers, sadly. She gives him her best smile, sinking a bit of the warmth she doesn’t feel behind the expression. “I’ll be sure to check it out,” she promises. “In the meantime, I think I’m just going to find someplace warm. I’ll eventually find my way.”

The man nodded before giving a quick jerk of his head to the left. “There’s a soup kitchen a few blocks up that way. They don’t water it down too bad, still has pretty good flavor. And the biscuits are fresh. Good place for people who don’t know where else to go.”

With a thank you, Darcy tells the man to be careful. After all, just because it’s quiet on this end of town doesn’t mean the fighting won’t eventually make its way here. The man gives her a confused look and mutters under his breath as he walks away. Darcy shrugs her shoulders, whatever, dude, call her crazy if you want. Either way, she heads in the direction he indicated, since it happens to be the way she was going anyway. She can at least help with relief efforts, help survivors, until she can get in contact with the X-Men again. A homeless shelter, which is what the guy had to be referencing, she thinks, seems like a good enough contact point.

Determined, she walks and makes plans in her head, the first of which is to get one of those handy dandy communicators the rest of the X-Men have the next time she’s at the mansion. It takes a few blocks, and the shouts of a boy on the corner, coupled with the noise of bustling activity, before she starts to really take in her surroundings. Once she does, though, she’s frozen stock still in her path. Her eyes run up and down the buildings, all of which are older but solid and well-kept construction, something that isn’t too unusual, especially in certain New York neighborhoods. The streets are relatively empty of traffic, but the cars, they’re something out of a black and white movie, all big hoods and wide carriages. It’s like she’s just been transported to Five Families mobster version of New York. 

The sidewalks have a few people scattered here and there, but there’s a line at least two blocks long outside of one building that appears to be a grocery store. She thinks, at least. The only times she’s seen a store front window with “General Goods” printed on it was the one ill-fated family trip through Wyoming during a “let’s see all the historical sites, yay” or in a few classic movies. She’s totally a sucker for Humphrey Bogart. 

The line consisted mostly of women, all in dresses, some had on pants, but all of the clothing looked like it had seen better days. Shouting caught her attention again, her head snapping to the yelling of a boy on the corner. He looks like he stepped straight out of a hipster catalog with his newsboy hat. Next to him are a stack of papers. Dread filled Darcy as she hurried over, her eyes frantically searching the top of the page for a date. What she sees nearly knocks her over.

April 5, 1942.

Eyes wide in disbelief, Darcy frantically scans the headlines of the paper, ignoring the heckling of the paperboy telling her to pay or to shove off. Every article on the front page is updating the home front about World War II, with a few sections scattered here and there concerning local news. All of it is dismal and depressing, but it can’t sink in as reality to Darcy. A sharp elbow to her side forces her to drop the paper and meet the angry eyes of the newsboy, hand outstretched.

“Pay up or move on, lady. Ain’t no freebies here.”

A man scowls at her from behind the boy and, not wanting to have any problems, Darcy apologizes and quickly backs away from the pair. Once at a good pace away, she sinks back against the side of a building as her brain attempts to wrap itself around the idea that she’s apparently in freaking 1942. That, or she’s still unconscious in a sinking plane in the Hudson River. 

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself before the hysteria has a chance to take over. She might be in 1942. If Thor, a man a million yeas old if not a day and still with amazingly cut abs, can travel through space and time from Asgaard to Earth, it’s possible for her to travel from 2013 to 1942, especially with the help of the funky blue cube light. Right? Not that the thought calms her at all, because she’s still stuck seventy years in the past with no money, no one she knows, and no way to get back. She can feel her heart practically beating out of her chest as the thoughts start to spiral out of control in her head, easily threatening to overwhelm her. Her eyes close as she leans against the cool brick of a building, the cacophony of worries swirling in her head. She takes a deep breath, then another, forcing her mind to calm. Panicking isn’t going to help. If anything, it’ll only draw attention and she might be asked questions that she doesn’t even know how the hell to answer.

As her heart rate slowly starts to regulate, she begins to tangle through the web of issues in her brain. She spares a thought to wonder what might have happened to the aliens she had sent flying straight into the cube ahead of her, but it seems they aren’t here, at least right now. Who knows if they ended up in a different time or if maybe she was just the one lucky passenger on this roulette wheel of chance. Either way, she slides that issue to the side to deal with at some later point. Part of her wants it to be a one-time fluke, because modern day New York had a hard enough time fighting off the aliens. She isn’t sure that what 1940s in the midst of World Freaking War Two New York would be able to throw at the invaders would be enough. They might have the fire power, considering there’s probably a munitions factory within a five mile radius of her location, but the manpower is a completely different thing.

Her next thought is to money. And housing. And food. She can feel her breathing get heavy again, and, instead of forcing herself to calm down, she lets the worst case scenario play out in her head. Once she forces herself to go through it, to live with what the worst that could happen, her head won’t be able to sneak up and catch her off guard with wild panic scenarios. 

She has no place to sleep, no money, and nobody that she knows. No money. No friends. No family. And no home. She barely manages to choke back a sob at the utter feeling of being completely and totally abandoned. She closes her eyes and tips her head back against the wall of the building, taking several deep breaths. She can do this. She has to do this. There isn’t another option, really. With one last a deep breath, she starts to go through the situation again. It’s time for pragmatic Darcy to take over, rather than emotional break down Darcy. She’s faced a Norse God, a transformer gone to the dark side in the New Mexico desert, and an alien invasion in New York. She can handle this.

It’s true, she might have to live on the streets for a while. There’s no denying that. Fortunately, it’s May and she has time to scrounge or, if she has to, steal money, to find housing for the winter. It’s not ideal, but it’s feasible. It’s an option, a last resort. Otherwise, there has to be at least one job or two that’ll take a worker with no documentation. She isn’t sure how stringent the standards are in the 40s, but they have to definitely be more lax than in her modern day. Especially now, since it’s all hands on deck for the war effort. And even in modern day, there are opportunities for undocumented workers if you know where to look.

As for food, well, she isn’t sure how her mutation will handle starvation, but she’s pretty sure it’s not going to be a pretty picture. Her body might completely break down to feed itself, only for her mutation to kick in to try to rebuild the muscle, burning up more energy and continuing the vicious cycle. A horrible image of her emaciated and weak form pops into her head, and Darcy entertains the thought long enough to get over the terror and to reestablish her determination. The man earlier mentioned a soup kitchen and made it sound like there were a couple throughout the city. She can eat there and, after talking to a couple people, maybe find some type of homeless shelter.

With the tentative idea of a plan in her mind, Darcy starts walking again, this time in search of the soup kitchen. She’s not hungry, but it’s better to have the place scouted out for when she is. Besides, it’s not like she has much else to do at this point in time.

Darcy orientates herself, and she’s unfortunately only able to do so because she remembered the stonework on the building a block back from where she first ran into the paper boy. She’s going to need to start paying better attention to her surroundings, especially now that she knows there’s no replacement cell phone, complete with the GPS she depended on like a life line, in her near future. 

She follows the instructions the man gave her, only having to stop once for clarification. The woman she stops gives her a considering look, obviously taking in the state of her clothing. She wrinkles her nose in distaste and Darcy immediately adds finding other clothes to her list of necessities. Or at least one extra set she can wear while she rinses these ones out to get rid of eau de river sludge. At least the ones she wore to work today are pretty generic, slacks and a black cap sleeve sweater with flats, that she won’t get too many second looks. She never thought she’d say it, but thank Thor for the bland clothing code Bourke and Hamilton strictly enforced.

In a short time, Darcy is in front of the glass paned window, the plain writing advertising “FOOD.” There’s a wood banner across the front of the building announcing “Free Soup, Coffee & Doughnuts for the Unemployed.” Someone had added “and Factory Workers” underneath, almost as an afterthought. The print is fresh, not as weathered and beaten as the rest of the sign. It was probably added after the war, Darcy muses, when demand for planes and bullets created enough jobs that there was actually enough employment to go around. Or at least enough to pull the country out of the deep depression it had been in. 

With one last look at the sign, Darcy walks up the small stoop and through the metal framed door to a relatively empty room. The long room seemed to take up at least half of the building, judging from how it looked on the outside. Worn formica tables with beaten wood benches form three neat rows down the center, leading to the back, where a long serving table is set up. A clock hangs on the wall above the serving table, hands close to three in the afternoon. The time explains the lack of people, considering it’s far past the lunch crowd and too soon for the dinner crowd and shift workers. 

Darcy weaves her way around the tables to the back of the building where she can hear the distinct clang of pots and pans. The smell of the soup, possibly potato, though she can’t tell for sure, cooking on the stove gets stronger as she nears the back. However, it’s the warm and homey smell of fresh bread baking in the oven that makes her stomach grumble. She’s surprised to find that she’s hungry, even though it feels like she just ate. Probably her body trying to replace the energy used up healing from the crash. 

The door to the kitchen behind the serving table is open and Darcy can see at least two people bustling back and forth. She debates the merits of calling out versus walking into the kitchen, wondering which one is going to appear more rude, when one of the women spots her. A tall woman with honey brown hair pinned back and pulled tightly into a bun walks out to stand behind the serving table. 

“You lookin’ for a meal? I might be able to scrap up something from lunch, otherwise you’ll have to wait until the next batch is done for dinner.”

Darcy shakes her head, ignoring the protest in her stomach over the prospect of freshly baked bread from the oven. “I’m fine, thanks, though I wouldn’t say no to a bowl at dinner. It smells delicious,” she compliments before forging ahead with her main mission. “Actually, I’m wondering if you know of a shelter that might have some room.”

The woman purses her lips together as she studies Darcy. “You from around here?”

“No,” Darcy says with a shake of her head. The woman just stares at her, obviously waiting for an elaboration. Darcy decides quickly to stick as closely to the truth as possible, and gives the woman an abbreviated version of her history. “I lived upstate, but recently lost my guardian. Moved to the city for a better chance. Just arrived today.”

“By way of the river, from the looks of you,” the woman comments.

“I may have had a misstep or two along the way,” Darcy admits. It’s a big understatement, obviously, but seems to do the trick as the woman simply nods her agreement. If the woman wants to think Darcy slipped off the docks while getting off the boat, that’s fine by her. Better than the truth, at any rate. At least she’ll just seem clumsy rather than crazy. No contest as to which is the better option in that scenario.

“You a hard worker?” the woman asks as she eyes Darcy speculatively.

“Yes, ma’am.” And Darcy has no idea where the ‘ma’am’ came from. Oh god, she’s never ma’am’d anyone in her life and less than two hours in the 1940s has her converted. She can’t help it. Even though the woman has to be only about five years older than Darcy, she looks like a ma’am. It’s partially the tightly pulled back hair, combined with the apron fastidiously tied around her waist over a worn soft cotton blue dress. But, mostly, she’s one of those people who just seem to demand respect with their mere presence. Although, Darcy supposes the no-nonsense attitude coupled with the stern face the woman is totally rocking is probably in high demand when dealing with hungry masses.

The woman, with her steely gaze, gives Darcy an assessing look, one that makes Darcy feel like she should be shuffling her feet back and forth with insecurity. Or like the time she was caught sneaking back into the mansion after stealing one of Scott’s cars with Rogue and Kitty. She pushes aside the feeling that she’s completely and totally unworthy, though, and meets the woman’s gaze head on. She can make herself stand tall in front of this woman and not appear inadequate, even if that’s exactly how she feels.

“You look like you can hold your own,” the woman announced. Darcy let out a sigh of relief over having obviously passed the test. The woman continues, “I assume you’ll be looking for work, too?” Darcy nods, not daring to breath a word that might make the woman think twice. “I thought as much,” the woman confirmed. “You’ll work here, can eat either after or before your shift, and do the odd jobs we need done the rest of the time. You’ll get a bit of coin and we’ll set you up on the cot in the back until you find some other place.” The woman pauses to give Darcy a pointed look. “And you will be finding another place. Don’t expect this to be your permanent home. We can’t take in everyone just because they have a sad story.”

Darcy nods along enthusiastically, a wide grin breaking across her face. She can’t even begin to express her relief and excitement over her good fortune. While sleeping under a bridge could, unfortunately, still be in her future, she’s managed to buy herself some time and some modicum of comfort in the meantime. Darcy profusely thanks the woman, who merely just waves off her words of gratitude. 

“We’ll see if you’ll be thanking me after your first shift. Go get cleaned up in the back, there’s a wash bowl and a clean towel. And get out of those clothes, because, honey, you stink.”

Darcy stifles a laugh even as she pulls the neck of her sweater away from her body in an attempt to air out the stench. “I know. It’s terrible. I’m afraid I don’t have any other clothes with me, though.”

“Good grief, what’d you do, run away with just the clothes on your back?”

“Something like that.” The other woman waits, again, for Darcy to continue, but unlike last time, Darcy isn’t willing to share more of the story. Seeing that she isn’t going to get a response, the woman merely shrugs. 

“Well, you can keep your secrets, so long as they don’t follow you here and cause trouble for others. You got a name we should be calling you?”

“Darcy Lewis.”

“Well, then, Darcy Lewis, I’m Evelyn and the other girl in back, with manners which have apparently failed her,” she adds in a raised tone directed towards the kitchen. Darcy hears a clatter of a spoon against a counter, followed by a curse before a curled bobbed redhead pokes her head through the door. A cigarette is dangling from the woman’s mouth, her green eyes vivid against pale skin. The girl, certainly younger than Darcy’s twenty-three years, is the epitome of stereotypical Irish. Of course, the look is complete when the woman gives her a sardonic grin and a wag of the hand before popping back in the kitchen.

Evelyn sighs, probably mostly out of exasperation, but Darcy can detect a hint of fondness there, too. “You can call her Meg. She takes a bit of getting used to, but she’s good help. Creative, too, with the recipes. She’s come up with a few ideas that have let us still serve something edible even when the rationing cuts deep into our supplies. Make sure to watch her, you’ll pick up a few tips for your own house.”

Darcy nods once again, not quite sure what else to say at this point. She has a feeling she’ll probably get along well with Meg, though, if the attitude is anything to go by. Cut from the same cloth, her grandmother would say. 

“Well, come along with you, then,” Evelyn orders as she disappears into the kitchen. Darcy hurries to catch up, dodging around the serving table to walk through the doorway. 

They walk past Meg, whose cigarette is letting a lazy trail of smoke drift towards the ceiling as she efficiently chops a slew of vegetables. Darcy watches as she finishes off the last of the onions before gathering up the large pile and tossing them into the pot of water on the stove. 

The kitchen is cozy, with a limited amount of counter space that’s added to with another long table running down the center of the room. There’s a stack of clean dishes and utensils on the end of the table, near the sink. There’s a sinking feeling in her stomach as Darcy realizes, obviously, the distinct lack of dishwashers. She had to do her fair share of kitchen duties at the mansion, all the students did, but she’s never had to wash this many dishes by hand. She’s hoping she’ll be able to get over the initial disgust right away of someone else’s food remnants on the plate, otherwise it’s going to be a long night.

They walk from the kitchen into what appears to be a storage room. The shelves are rather barren, all things considered. Only one or two still hold vegetables, all of which are starting to look past their prime. There’s a carton or two of powdered milk amongst other things that she couldn’t even try to name.

“Tomorrow, I’ll be sending you with Meg to get our weekly ration,” Evelyn informs her as they continue walking through the brief tour, Evelyn pointing out the main attractions as they pass. “You’ll want to go early so you don’t have to stand in line too long. Be sure to take the coupon book with you, though Meg will probably remind you. We’re also at our fuel ration limit, so you’ll have to carry the items back.” 

The information dump is starting to make Darcy’s head spin, but she doesn’t dare ask too many questions. She had a vague idea of rationing from her history courses in college, but, obviously, that was all theory. It’s completely different in practice. At least Meg will be along tomorrow to make sure Darcy doesn’t accidentally spend all the ration coupons tomorrow. If that’s even how it works. It’s not like she has a clue.

“We have a few odds and ends of clothing around here. We should be able to find something that will fit you,” Evelyn continues as they walk into a third room tucked away behind the pantry. The room itself is narrow, but probably runs the width of the building behind the kitchen and the pantry. Darcy can see a door on the far end of the room. Judging from the two different locks securing it, she’s assuming this one leads to the back alley. 

There’s a bed in the corner on the right side of the room, along with a night stand and a lamp. A dresser is set up on the opposite wall, next to a wash stand with a pitcher and a large basin. 

“Bathroom is over here. Nothing fancy, but it works for our needs,” Evelyn gestures to a small room on the left. “The shower takes awhile to warm up and the water pressure isn’t anything to be proud of, but it works.” She walks to the dresser and pulls open the drawers, rummaging through until she pulls out a pair of trousers, a blouse, and a dress. She lays the items out on the bed for Darcy to inspect. Darcy holds each one up to her body, taking care to not let the clean cloth touch the dirty clothes she’s still wearing. 

One thing about the 1940s, she muses as she inspects the top, is that at least they actually have clothing built for a woman with breasts.

“These will definitely work, thank you.” 

Evelyn gives her a brisk nod before gesturing once again to the dresser. “There’s probably a sleep shirt or two buried somewhere in there, if you care to dig. You can use what you want, but don’t take more than you need. Once you get cleaned up, you can go help Meg get ready for the dinner crowd.”

Darcy waits until Evelyn leaves the room, softly closing the door behind her, before she slumps down on the bed. She leans against the wall and tucks her legs tight up against her chest, resting her head on her knees. Even though she has a roof over her head for the night and the promise of food, she still feels completely overwhelmed by the situation. Overwhelmed and lost. 

A sob chokes out of her throat and she can feel the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. She’s homesick, so damn homesick, and absolutely no way of getting back there, at least that she can see at this point in time. She wishes she never would have took that chance. It was an idiot move to be playing around the beam. She didn’t know what it did, or what it would do. It was powering a freaking black hole of doom, obviously a metaphorical big “KEEP AWAY” sign if there ever was one. Everyone else had the sense to avoid it and what does she do? Plows a freaking plane right into the middle of the damn thing.

She can keep beating herself up, but what she wants is to be able to go back to Xavier’s mansion after the battle. She wants the chance to talk to the Professor about the fight, to hear his thoughts and ideas, see his perspective on the situation. She wants to eat dinner with the X-Men, talking about the victory and hear Logan give Scott a hard time. She wants to be able to go to sleep in her bed at the mansion and wake up to breakfast in the morning with Rogue and Kitty before she messes around with the Nighthawk engine, you know, the one that isn’t at the bottom of the Hudson right now, and trains with Wolverine. She’d even take just being able to wake up in her apartment in the city to the honking and yelling on the street below. Either way, it’d mean she was home.

She half-heartedly wipes away the tears that are now falling. The X-Men have to know she’s gone by now and would already be working on it. She can practically see the gears spinning in Dr. McCoy’s brain as he tackles the puzzle. It makes her feel better to think that Beast, smart, dedicated, thorough Beast, is probably already in his lab, running tests and going through various analysis, isolating the problem. The X-Men know about her history with Jane Foster and, given Thor and Loki’s presence with the aliens, there has to be a link to the work they did in the desert with the Rainbow Bridge. She’s sure one of the X-Men will also have made the connection and have the foresight to contact her former boss to bring her in the loop to solve the problem. Maybe Eric will get roped along, too. The thought of her friends looking for her manages to provide some amount of reassurance, and pushes back the feeling of helplessness that threatened to overwhelm her. 

Plus, Darcy tells herself, the thing is that she could be depressed, mopey, and pouting, hating everything and being pretty much a bitch. That isn’t her, though, so that’s not an attitude she can take for long. On the other hand, she can embrace the life she’s been dumped in, indulge in the luck she’s been granted and hope it holds out, and live rather than hide and wait. 

With one last swipe at her eyes to clear them, Darcy picks herself up off the bed, gathers the clothes, and does her best to make herself presentable at the wash basin before going out to help Meg with dinner, 1940s style.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was supposed to be just one chapter. After editing, adding, taking away, and editing again today, I ended up splitting it into two chapters because of the length. However, I'm posting both today, so two for one? Always a good deal, hopefully.
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

It’s been about a month since Darcy first crash landed in 1942. It’s still rough, not just with the situation, but she’s suffered the more than the occasional bout of nightmares. Almost every time, actually, she’s forced to relive her crash in the river, except this time there’s twisting metal and bright explosions. There’s no soft landing, no safe recovery. 

But as if that’s not plenty of ammunition for sleepless nights, her memory has decided to pull some old goodies out of the closet. Every so often, instead of water and explosions, she’ll be back in the now barren New Mexico desert. No buildings, no other people. She’s completely alone, lost, until she hears a noise and turns to see the Destroyer looming over her, lunging at her. 

The first nightmare had occurred her second night in the past. She’s pretty sure she was too exhausted the first night to do anything but fall face first in her provided bed, let alone actually remember her dreams. But the second night, after tossing and turning in a struggle to even fall asleep, she woke up, choking down gasping breaths of air. Her body felt as chilled as the water she had thought she was drowning in, her heart racing with the imagined fight. Sometimes she’s trapped in the plane, unable to get out as the water slowly fills the cockpit. Other times, she wakes up at the bottom of the ocean, briefly struggling before the oxygen deprivation kills her again, or makes her pass out, at least, until her mutant regeneration kicks in and forces her awake again. To relive the trauma. To feel her lungs filling up with water once more even as she struggles to the surface that just gets further away the harder she swims.

Darcy doesn’t know if that’s what would actually happen. She doesn’t want to know. 

She’s not going to let her nightmares control her, though, and she’s bound and determined that, when she gets the chance, she’ll force herself back into the cockpit. She loves flying too much to give it up, though she’ll certainly be less foolhardy next time. No more blue beams of doom for her.

On top of the nightmares, she’s crazy homesick. However, she’s managed to create some semblance of a routine in this short amount of time, which helps. Between the work she does in the soup kitchen, coupled with the odds and ends jobs Evelyn has pointed her towards for the various people in their neighborhood, Darcy manages to come back to her bed at night exhausted and with a bit of coin steadily growing in her pocket. 

Some nights, though, that isn’t enough, and she lies awake in her bed, sleep eluding her as her mind is plagued by thoughts of how she can get back to her time. Or how she might never get back to her time. There are a few moments when her faith in the X-Men wavers. She knows, hopes, they would be trying to locate her, especially the minute the tracker in their plane went offline. But, their ability to find her here hinges on so many factors. Hank being able to study the tesseract being the main one and, though the X-Men aren’t exactly worried about bucking convention and swiping it before that other superhero group can recover it, SHIELD’s involvement has her worried. 

The feeling of abandonment, of hopelessness, threatens to overwhelm her on those nights, much like it did her first day in the past, and she’s fallen asleep with tears silently falling from her eyes more than once. The next morning, though, she wakes up with a new sense of purpose and pushes whiney, mopey Darcy to the back of her mind. Slowly but surely, whiney, mopey Darcy becomes a thing of the past and take-charge Darcy is more often than not in control.

Though she’s managed to make her way somewhat, Darcy still finds herself still at ends pretty frequently, either with loose time on her hands that she has no idea how to fill or with a complete loss as to how to even function in this decade. She was hella tech savvy in the 21st century, but here, she quickly realizes she doesn’t even know how to make her own coffee. Which is another one of the things that’s come as a wake-up call. She’s had a very practical application of the theory that a mocha latte is a far cry from plain black coffee. Never mind one that’s brewed from the sludge scraped off someone’s shoe, which she’s pretty sure is the main component in the crap she’s drinking now. 

Plus, to add insult to injury, she can’t even try to sweeten up the sludge and has to learn to forgo the indulgence of cream and sugar due to rationing. Needless to say, it’s pretty much on the opposite end of the spectrum from the whipped confections Starbucks used to ply her with each morning on the way to work. There definitely isn’t one on each corner in 1940s New York. But, her only other option is to completely forego her caffeine intake altogether and that’s just pure insanity. So, with a grimace, she pours the motor oil in her cup each morning, and, eventually, the first sip goes from bracing to welcoming. Plus, she really thinks she’s probably getting better at brewing it since she makes the sludge every morning for the soup kitchen.

Her routine is simple and revolves around the the meal rushes at the soup kitchen. Breakfast is a more simple affair, though it still requires her to be up early to start making coffee and doughnuts. She has to admit, now that she’s had a homemade doughnut from scratch, it totally beats anything she could have bought, hands down. She’s definitely guilty of sneaking a few as soon as they’re cool enough to snatch, the soft bread practically melting in her mouth. It almost makes up for the crappy coffee.

These few weeks have allowed her to make some plans, too. Her immediate thought was to try to track down Professor Xavier, especially since he has that handy little mind-reading ability and, as a result, would not look at her like she’s crazycakes when he hears her story. Unfortunately, as she does the math in her head, or at least a fair guesstimate at the math because hell if she knows the Professor’s actual age, she realizes the Professor would only be about ten or twelve years old and certainly in no position to be able to help her. At least she does know the man’s location, given the fact that his childhood home was the school where she grew up. So, ultimately, her only option on that front is to wait several years until the Professor is old enough to have made a few connections and actually be able to help her. Obviously not an ideal situation since that will be at least ten years of her life spent waiting. If not more.

Her other option for an ally is Wolverine, but that situation has pretty much just as dismal of an outlook as the one with the Professor, if not worse. While Wolverine would certainly be old enough to handle the enormity of her situation, given that he’s probably in his 50s or 60s right about now, she has absolutely no clue where he would be. Well, that isn’t totally true, she does has a relative idea, dropped from a conversation that they’d had awhile ago. 

_She’d been in the middle of one of her training sessions with the older mutant, managing to hold up pretty well, all things considered, when he dropped a move on her that she’d never seen before._

_“Where the hell did that come from?” she gasped, holding her stomach to keep it from falling out of her body. Not literally, but it sure freaking felt like it. Bastard, she thought, shooting him another dirty look._

_“Korean War,” Wolverine answered gruffly. “Had some mercenaries that were attached to my unit for awhile. Learned a thing or two from them.”_

_Darcy turned her head just enough to shoot him an incredulous look. “What the hell were you doing in the Korean War?”_

_“Fighting.”_

_Darcy rolled her eyes as she made the tentative move to stand up. She couldn’t help the wince of pain as her stomach muscles pulled, still incredibly tender from the hit. That freaking adamantium skeleton would be the death of her, especially if Wolverine wasn’t going to pull his punches any longer. “Obviously. Why, though? What made you sign up?”_

_Wolverine shrugs as he restlessly waits. He’s moving from side to side, Darcy doesn’t want to say bouncing because who the hell had ever seen Wolverine bouncing, but he’s definitely antsy, his blood still up, as he waited for the fight to continue. “Darling, I’ve been involved in every war since World War I. It’s what I did. Don’t know exactly why, prolly cuz I was good at killing and not good at dying. Bright side is while I might not have memories of the times, my muscles still remember how to use the training. Got a fair bit of the languages I picked up, too, but that’s still a bit too twisted in my head to be useful,” he added, tapping his skull with his finger._

_Darcy stretched to loosen up the still tight stomach muscles before she once again resumed her fighting stance. “Well, aren’t you just a grizzly man full of surprises?”_

_Wolverine smirked. “Break’s over, kid.” Which was the only warning she received. The bastard then sent a roundhouse kick her way that had her seeing stars because apparently cheap shots are a legitimate thing when sparring with hundred year old Canadians._

The conversation comes back to her mind now, though, and gives her a fairly good idea where Wolverine would be. Unfortunately, while his location is somewhat narrowed down, it still consists of an entire land mass, one of which she isn’t currently on. Plus, you know, the whole entire world at war thing that he had plopped his ass right in the middle of. So, ultimately, still highly problematic.

However, there is hope on that front, at least a tiny glimmer of it, thanks to a discussion she overheard just this afternoon while cleaning the tables after the lunch crowd. There was still a table of with two women who had come in late, coming in on the tail end of the hectic lunch crowd. Since they made no move to rush out, Darcy figures they’ve probably just finished their shift. The one woman still has her hair tied back with a kerchief covering and protecting the tendrils from getting caught in the machinery while the other has already released the soft bobs into brown waves around her shoulders. Both are still dressed in their factory clothes, with bits of grease staining their knees and elbows. Darcy is scrubbing down the tables nearby, absent-mindedly listening in while the women chat.

“If our boys can go over there to do their part, so can I. Besides,” the one woman, dark curls bouncing emphatically around her face, adds with a wave of her hand, “it’s either that or staying with a factory job here. Least this way, I might get to see something other than the inside of a dark warehouse. Probably my only chance at travel that I’ll have.”

The second woman nods, a blond curl slipping free from her kerchief. “There is that. Plus, not many front line jobs for women. Though, I heard they’re starting to pull up female pilots to form their own squadron. Mostly ferrying, from what I’ve heard, not bombing or dog fights or any of that stuff, but word is you’d still see a fair bit of action.”

“It isn’t surprising they’d need extra pilots to do the grunt work. We sent a bunch over to the RAF before we were even involved in the war. Wouldn’t be surprised if we were a bit short-handed until the next batch of recruits make it out of basic. Even then, they’ll send them all over to be gunners or bombers instead of transport.”

Of course, that catches Darcy’s attention. Her heart starts beating in excitement as she drops her rag back on the table and rushes over to the pair of woman, who look up in surprise to see Darcy. “Excuse me,” Darcy interrupts. “Sorry to barge in, and sorry again for being noisy and listening in. But is it true? Are they taking female pilots?”

The dark-haired woman nods. “They set up a recruiting post just for women a few blocks south of here. Near the corner of Christopher and Sixth. They’re recruiting for the whole Women’s Auxilary Army Corps, not just for the pilots.” Darcy has no clue where that is, but she figures she can ask Meg or even Evelyn for directions if she needs to. Otherwise there have to be recruitment posters all over that’ll point the direction.

“Are you interested?” the other woman asked curiously.

Darcy nodded. “I have my pilot’s license. It’d be nice to put it to use again.” Plus, it’s the opportunity she’s been looking for. It gives her a greater chance of making contact with Wolverine since she’ll actually be closer to the front lines, rather than most likely holed up in some office if she had enlisted in the Auxilary Corp. At the very least, it gets her on the same continent. It’s still a big war, after all. “The only issue is, I don’t have any identification papers. Got lost,” she offers as the only explanation. 

The dark-haired woman shrugs, as if acting like this isn’t anything unusual, which really surprises Darcy. Though, she knew her grandpa told her stories about how he enlisted by lying about his age, something totally easy to disprove with any sort of identification, so maybe it really isn’t out of the norm. “Don’t worry about that,” the dark-haired woman reassures her. “They’re pretty hard up for help. As long as you can pass your health and wellness exams, and prove you can loop-di-loop the planes with the best of them at training, they’ll snatch you up. At least, that’s what they’ve been doing with the men,” she adds. “I’ll go down with you, if you let me know when you plan on leaving. I need to sign up sometime, might as well be today.”

Darcy thanks both of the women for the information and sets up a time with the woman, who introduces herself as Jo, before beating a hasty retreat. She’s going to have to double-time it if she wants to get her work done, sign up, and be back in time for the dinner rush. With the last table wiped down and the dishes washed, Meg frees her for the afternoon, with a warning to be back early. 

Jo is waiting for her on the sidewalk outside the soup kitchen. Thankfully, she doesn’t say much as they start to walk, which Darcy is grateful for. She’s tired of making small talk after her shift today. Frankly, she’s also still really nervous despite Jo’s reassurances. 

As they get closer, she can feel the flutter of nerves knocking around in her stomach. Hopefully they’ll calm once she’s actually in front of the recruitment officer, though. If not, she’ll just blab her way through it, kind of like she did with her interview to work as Jane’s intern. Which, granted, is a little bit different, though, since Jane literally had no other option. 

Not reassuring, she silently chides herself. 

Plus, while she might have trained with the X-Men, being an a war zone is completely different. And, let’s face it, her last time in a battle isn’t exactly a resounding recommendation. Is she crazy to be signing up to go back to that? To having people try to shot her out of the sky every single time she takes a plane up? To have other people, passengers, soldiers, depend on her to keep them safe? Darcy seriously starts to get cold feet and is really thinking about turning back, but just as she hesitates, Jo hooks her arm through Darcy’s. It’s a reassuring warm weight against her body, holding her firmly, acting as support and not constraint. Jo gives her a reassuring smile, her brown eyes encouraging even as they once again continue to walk. Darcy gives Jo’s arm a squeeze in thank-you, grateful for the other woman’s confidence when her own is faltering.

When they get to the recruitment center, she can see word must have definitely gotten around about the expanded call and Darcy can’t say she’s surprised at the turnout. While history was never her strong subject in school, outside of what was covered in her Poli Sci courses, even she had a decent enough grasp on the socioeconomic influences of WWII. There were going to be a decent amount of women, like Jo, who were definitely going to take advantage of the new opportunities, despite whatever danger might come their way as a result. It’s a chance they haven’t had up to this point and she can practically feel the excitement buzzing in the air. She’s surrounded by giddy faces, eyes bright as they chat and laugh, each one of them high on anticipation.

It suddenly hits Darcy that she’s on the forefront of new possibilities, of the implementation of chances she took for granted in her life. She takes her place in line, head held high and shoulders back, a satisfied smile on her lips as she can’t help but feel a little proud to be part of it now, even in her small role.

As she takes her place in line, she’s quickly caught up in the frenzy, chatting and laughing easily with the women around her. All around, she can see people fidgeting in line, wishing for it to move faster. Occasionally, she’ll catch someone peeking out from their spot to look ahead and see how far away from the front they are, only to check again a few minutes later.

Glancing around, Darcy realizes she doesn’t know where Jo slipped off to. She lost track of the other woman as soon as they entered through the doors. Even though there’s one long line going to the recruitment desk, there’s still a multitude of people milling around, either waiting for friends or waiting to be called for their health check-up. She searches the crowd, but despite craning her neck, she can’t find the other woman. 

She doesn’t have much time to worry because, soon enough she suddenly finds herself at the head of the line in front of the recruitment desk. She’s kept half an eye on the recruiting officer and, just like Jo said, not everyone had identification papers to present. She couldn’t hear everything that was said by the recruitment officer, but she did see that some women were turned away while some were sent on to the medical station for a check-up. It gave her a bit of hope, at least. 

While Darcy still can’t believe, coming from a modern age where you’re asked to provide three different proofs of identification before you’re allowed to do anything, that they wouldn’t even bat an eyelash at accepting her based on her word alone. She’s willing to argue for her spot, though, since her back is up against the metaphorical wall, so that’s a mark in her favor. Plus, pilot skills have to be pretty valuable right about now, so that’s a possible trump card. The worst they could do was turn her away. Well, no, they could lock her up if they thought she was misrepresenting herself, but she’s pretty sure they have bigger concerns right now.

“Darcy Lewis,” she announces to the recruitment officer, a grizzled man who is the perfect stereotype of every recruitment officer she’s seen in the movies with his closely cut hair and his no-nonsense attitude. His uniform is spic and span, despite probably going on his seventh hour of applicants. He barely looks up from his pad of paper in acknowledgment of her greeting. Instead, he merely holds out an empty hand.

“Papers.”

Darcy takes a deep breath. Here it goes. Nothing to lose. “Haven’t got any, sir. My apologies. They were lost.”

The man sighs. “Witness?”

“Sorry?” Darcy asks. Her brow furrows in confusion even as the noise picks up behind her once again, obviously anxious for her to move along.

He waves his hand in the air, obviously impatient. “Witness. Someone to vouch for you, that can say you’re not misrepresenting yourself.”

Oh. That would be how the other women without papers made it through, then. She can feel the spark of hope leaving her, but she pushes forward. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, after all. “Haven’t got one of those, either.”

That gets his attention. He looks up from his notepad and stares at her.

“Can you give me any other reason why I shouldn’t dismiss you right now?” he asks, pointedly looking at the long line of waiting women behind her.

“I’m a pilot,” Darcy offers. “I’ve had my license for over five years now and log close to a thousand hours a year.”

She can see the the spark of interest in his eyes, but it’s quickly tempered by reality. He leans closer as he speaks, his tone urgent now. “And you’re certain you have nobody who can act as your witness?”

“I’m afraid not,” Darcy answers apologetically, though she idly wonders if either Meg or Evelyn would be willing to help her. She really doesn’t want to ask, considering how much they’ve already done for her. If she has to, though, she’ll bring one of them down here with her next time. “I’m new to the city. I’ve been working at the soup kitchen a few blocks up, though. They can vouch for my work ethic.”

The man sighs. “Miss -”

“Lewis,” Darcy supplies, giving him a winning grin in the process. “Pilot. Great recruitment option. Minimal training required.”

“Miss Lewis, I’m afraid -” The man is once again cut off, not by Darcy this time, though. 

“I’ll stand for her.”

Darcy turns around to see Jo pushing her way through the few people separating them, a determined expression on her face. As Jo nears the table, brown curls tossed back with an assertive shake, she quickly presents her papers to the officer. She spares a glance at Darcy long enough to give her a grin, all full of cocky foolhardy bravado, before turning her sharp focus back on the recruitment officer in front of them, a no-nonsense expression quickly taking over her features.

“Jo Moynihan, Brooklyn born, though raised under the open skies of Montana, as you can see quite clearly,” she says, pointing to the place on her birth certificate. “I’ll vouch for Darcy, she says who she says she is, of course she’s old enough, and she could fly that plane to Berlin and back with one hand tied behind her back and blindfolded.”

The look on Jo’s face is fierce, practically daring the enlistment officer to argue with her. Darcy molds her features to mimic the woman next to her, the twin expressions meeting the now completely exasperated look of the recruitment officer head on. With a sigh, the man quickly scrawls Darcy’s name, along with the made up birthday she supplies and various other information. He then reaches for the stamp and gives Darcy’s papers the tentative approval before pushing them across the table to her. “You still need to meet with the doctors and have them clear you,” he cautions. “And you’ll have to do that on your own, without the help of your friend.”

Darcy eagerly grabs her acceptance papers off the table quickly before he can snatch them back, realizing he’s probably just made a mistake and he actually know nothing about this woman and really should know better than to take the word of a stranger that she says who she is and that she’s old enough to risk her life for her country. The man quickly fills out and stamps Jo’s papers as well, obviously ready to be done with both of them. He then gestures them both to the line for the health check-up while waving the next person forward.

As they take their place in the next line, Darcy says a soft thank you to the woman who stood up for her. The other woman offers her a small grin. “They would have taken you anyway, I just helped them make up their minds a little bit faster. Should have stuck with you a bit longer instead of hopping in a different line.” Jo pauses as she drops her voice, looking around to make sure no one is listening in. “Probably too late to ask, but you can fly airplanes, right? I know you said you had your license, but that could have been a load of nonsense.”

Darcy grins and gives her a wink. “With one hand tied behind my back and blindfolded.”

“Well, if I’m ever up with you, I’d prefer both eyes open,” Jo remarks dryly with a sly grin. “I’ll let you keep one hand behind your back, though, if you want to keep up the brag around the boys. 

Darcy laughs. “Deal. What about you? What division are you enlisting?”

Jo gives her a more genuine grin as she waves her acceptance papers in front of Darcy. “WASP, of course. Gotta have someone watch your back. You seem like the type who can find trouble around any corner.”

“Yeah, but I seem to be having the luck to back it up, recently,” Darcy remarked. 

“Well, be sure to share the luck. I think we could all use a bit of it right about now.”

The medical exam went quick, pretty much as basic as any physical exam she’s had in her life. She passes with flying colors and is presented with her acceptance papers and an information packet. She tells Jo thanks again as she leaves, making plans to catch up once they’re at training camp. They are only recruiting for one female pilot program, so they’ll definitely see each other. It’s not until Darcy is outside the building that she stops to take a look at her papers. According to her orders, she’s to report to Avenger Field in Texas in three days time. There’s no ticket or arrangements for transportation so she’ll have to dip into the meager savings she’s managed to scrape together from taking odd jobs to cover the cost. 

The papers suggest she to bring her logbook and her pilot’s license, but the information packet she was handed also said they’ll test her there. She crosses her fingers and hopes her luck will follow. Either way, if they won’t let her fly, they’ll keep her around to do something, which is better than sitting in a shelter in Brooklyn, hoping for her life to come back. And, let’s be honest, she’s never really been good at waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avenger Field is actually the training field for the WASPs. I thought that was an awesome bit of coincidence.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter of what was supposed to be one chapter. Because I promised Bucky.
> 
> Also, major thanks goes to Polexia_Aphrodite for the emotional support when I felt like this was kicking my ass and was having a bit of self-doubt. She's about ten different kinds of amazing.

When she returns to the soup kitchen, after stopping long enough to buy a train ticket for the next day, Darcy walks past a rather skinny looking blond haired man sitting at one of the tables with his food and a few ragged pieces of paper in front of him. She recognizes him, of course. He sometimes comes in alone, especially more now. Before, he was usually in with his buddy, a taller man built tough and lean, with dark-hair and a cocky half-grin. 

Darcy has a professed weakness that she likes to people watch. At the kitchen, she has a couple people in particular that she looks for each day. These two men, though, have quickly become her favorite customers, not that she’s had any chance to actually talk to them. Especially if Meg is working the front line. She likes to flirt with the taller man a lot and is quick to send Darcy back to the kitchen for refills when she sees the pair coming through the line. That’s fine with Darcy because while the both men might be attractive, and she’s always had a weakness for dark-haired men, though the blond man is handsome, too, just in a different way, she really isn’t much in the mind frame for flirting.

They’re interesting characters, though, and some part of her loves seeing the little glimpses into their lives. It’s better than any TV show she might have watched at home.

The two of them usually come in once or twice a week. Though you could tell they were just scraping by, with well-worn clothes and tired shoes, they were both well-groomed and did the best with what they had. They seem to hate to take advantage, the dark-haired man muttering a time or two under his breath that there are people far more deserving. She’s found out through her snooping, that whenever they have a spare scrap of coin, they’ll spend it buying and making their own food rather taking advantage of handouts. She’s also seen the shorter one, the blond man, occasionally pass a bit of money to Evelyn to help out with the kitchen purchases when he can afford it.

She’s heard through kitchen gossip that the blond man, Steve, gets into fights, but it sounds like the dark-haired man, Bucky, she learns is his name, or at least it’s what Steve calls him when they’re talking, is usually there to back him up or break it up entirely. Steve has a certain air of authority that, had he been born in a bigger body, or even wider shoulders, would have translated into a commanding manner that demanded others to instantly fall in line. He would have been respected for that trait. Instead, with his short and weakened stature, the authority comes off as cocky, mouthy, and is all the easier to dismiss with a punch to the face. Bucky, meanwhile, actually is cocky and mouthy, but it’s polished to a charm. One Darcy has seen too many times worn like a veneer, keeping you from seeing the person actually underneath.

They’ve both come into the kitchen multiple times with bruises and cuts, some deep enough to look like they came from broken glass bottles. Darcy was worried at first, not quite sure what the two might be mixed up in that would lead to so many fights. Possibly running errands for the mob. Prohibition might be over, but she’s learned from Evelyn that the mob still controls a large number of the streets. 

Needless to say, even though she still doesn’t know these men, she’s relieved to find out, through bits and pieces of overheard conversation, that it’s standing up for others rather than running for the mob that’s earned them a black eye or two. Or, according to Bucky, it’s Steve running his mouth, but Bucky seems like the type to exaggerate simply to give his buddy a hard time. Either way, it’s surprising and paints both men in a new light, to know that they go out of their way to help others.

She still isn’t quite sure what they do for money, but given the fact that Bucky occasionally comes in scuffed up, earning him a sour look from Steve, it can’t be all entirely above board. Then, one day, they’re in there together but, instead of the usual atmosphere of teasing and light-hearted talking that has Darcy grinning for the rest of her shift, there’s a somber air that threatens to suffocate them. Neither man cracks a smile from the moment they step through the door, even though Meg does her best effort to get a grin from Bucky, to when they sit down, quietly eating their meal.

So far, Darcy has kept her distance and given them the illusion of privacy, but she’s never seen either man look this bleak. Decision made, she takes up residence at one of the closest tables, under the pretense of clearing the dishes that were left behind before wiping everything down. Of course, she’s shamelessly eavesdropping and barely accomplishing any work other than the one foot square directly in front of her. Thankfully, nobody challenges her on it.

The two men sit silent for awhile loner, both scraping away at bowls that have long since emptied. Darcy is about to give up and head back to the kitchen when Bucky speaks.

“I’ll send back money.” His voice is low and rough, almost tentative as he holds back emotion. It’s the first time she’s heard him speak that isn’t polished and practiced. Usually words tip off his tongue, sweet and seductive. She feels like she’s peering through the cracks, finally getting a glimpse of the man underneath. There’s a multitude of feelings on display in those few words, but Darcy doesn’t even have the context to begin to understand. She risks a glance, but the man’s blue eyes are shuttered, revealing nothing to her. “They’ll have to pay me better than what I’ve been getting, at least. So that’s something.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve dismisses, shifting restlessly in his seat, like he’d rather avoid this conversation entirely. The pride is evident in his tone. Darcy thinks there’s also a fair amount of stubbornness present, too, which, given how many times she’s seen this man come in with a busted lip over the past few weeks, doesn’t surprise her at all.

Bucky shrugs. “Ain’t much I’m going to be able to do with it right now. Might as well put it to use, rest of it can be saved up.” The ‘for after the war’ hangs ominously in the air between them. For after the war. For after I come back. For after I’m home. If I come home.

This time, Steve says nothing and Bucky seems to take that as acceptance. They leave shortly after, with Bucky looking at her briefly over his shoulder, his dark brows arched mischievously. Her cheeks flush at the realization that he probably pretty much knew she was listening in the entire time, not that she was being covert so that’s on her. She tries to play it off as best as possible, giving both of them a little wave as the door closes behind them. Smooth, Darcy, she thinks to herself. Really smooth. She is surprised, though, that he was willing to be even a little unguarded if he knew she was listening in. It makes her curious about him. But, since he’s leaving, she’s not really going to have the chance to find out any answers.

She only sees Bucky two more times before he ships out to training. They come in the day before he’s supposed to leave, money already burning a hole in their pockets with plans to see him off right. Bucky gives her a wink and a smile as he passes through the line, but Darcy isn’t at her station long enough to actually speak to him. Meg hurries her off, quickly taking over her serving, which is just fine with Darcy. Really. Besides, she sees with a backward glance, Bucky seems receptive enough to the flirting Meg throws his way, at least from the charm and teasing he gives back. Meg can keep the charm. Darcy would rather have the rare glimpses of the man underneath.

After Bucky is gone, Darcy sees Steve at the kitchen more often. Each time he comes in, he always looks as if he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. She wonders if he comes for the company, but she never sees him speak to anyone. Instead, he always holes up in the corner with his bits of paper and pencil, drawing away. Even she hasn’t been nosy enough to try to take a peek, yet, at least.

If she’s serving when he comes through the line, she always makes sure to put a bit extra on his plate since the man can obviously use it. He always rewards her with a smile and, eventually, it goes from small and tight to wide and genuine. His clothes are a bit nicer, less careworn though still second-hand, so either he found an extra job or his buddy’s steady pay is coming through for both of them.

Today he’s alone again, but at least his shoulders aren’t hunched and tight as she passes. Instead, he’s relaxed, his focus entirely on the paper in front of him. She thinks about stopping to say hi, but she doesn’t want to interrupt his concentration, especially since this is the most relaxed she’s ever seen him. Besides, she needs to talk to Evelyn and get ready for her shift. She also needs to pack if she wants to make her early train tomorrow.

Meg and Evelyn are both already in the kitchen, working on the meal for the night, when Darcy walks through the doorway. While Meg is excited for her, and Evelyn merely hums her approval. 

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Evelyn does eventually ask, with some slight concern.

“Yes,” Darcy answers frankly. After all her nerves this afternoon, she’s happy with her decision. She’s already making lists in her head of things to take care of before she leaves, of items she needs to pack. Even over the course of the ten minutes she’s been in the kitchen, she’s checked the clock three times, both wanting the hands to hurry up and worried that she won’t have enough time to take care of everything. “It’s the best option for me at this point, though I’m grateful for all you’ve done.”

Evelyn, obviously not one for too much show of emotion, simply nods. “Well, hopefully you’re grateful enough to take another bowl of soup to the man still sitting out there. He looks like he could need it,” Evelyn adds as she ladles up the broth and pushes the bowl into Darcy’s hands. “Meg just pulled some rolls fresh from the oven, too, make sure to grab a couple for him. Wrap them up if he won’t eat them now. Grab something for yourself, too, before the dinner crowd.”

Darcy manages to place two rolls on both of the soup bowl saucers, with an extra one on the bowl for Steve, and balance both saucers without losing a roll as she comes up to the his table. Without waiting for him to acknowledge her, otherwise she might be standing there the rest of the night, she slides the bowl in front of him, pushing the empty one aside for her to take back to the kitchen later. 

“Mind if I join you?” she asks. She waits for his half nod, barely looking up from his drawing, before placing her own bowl down and quickly taking a seat. She eats a few sips of her soup while she observes the man, taking in what she missed in her rush to get back to the kitchen. She watches as those sharp blue eyes narrow in concentration, his mouth drawn tight together as his fingers fly across the page. Every once in awhile, he reaches out with his other hand to smudge the pencil marks. Darcy arches her head to see what he’s drawing with his furrowed brown and his pencil practically worn down the nub. She can see a few of the pages, some of the images actually familiar as she recognizes the various regulars at the soup kitchen.

“Those are really good,” she says, breaking the silence. Steve looks up at her, surprised, as if he’d forgotten that she was there. Darcy offers him a grin before she gestures with her half-eaten roll. “Meg would love that one. Or,” Darcy amends, “at least, I love that one. You’ve managed to completely portray her personality.”

And he had. She couldn’t give a definite time frame as to when he might have done the drawing, but the drawing has captured Meg during one of the meals. Her hands are outstretched, offering up an unseen plate of food, with a worn but still ready smile. While her expression is tired and her body is tense from the long day, her eyes still sparkle with hidden wit and, looking at the image, Darcy thinks that Meg probably split off a good one-liner five seconds after the moment in the drawing.

“Thanks,” Steve responds. He clears his throat awkwardly before continuing, his hand still tracing lines across the page. “I took a couple of classes for awhile, but had to drop out.”

Darcy doesn’t tell him that it’s too bad, though she wants to. Given his short stature, small frame, and pale countenance, it’s probably safe to say that he’s had a number of health issues. He’s probably had enough platitudes to fill a lifetime. Instead, she sighs dramatically. “First sugar, now art. Next thing, you’ll be trying to take my coffee away. Is there no end?”

The man arches a blond eyebrow over sharp blue eyes. His tone is as dry as the New Mexico desert when he speaks. “I’ve had your coffee, ma’am. I wouldn’t worry about anyone trying to take it.”

Darcy grins. “You’re sassy. I like it.” She sticks out a hand. “Darcy Lewis. Not ma’am.”

He briefly hesitates before taking her hand, his grip firm in hers as he shakes. “Steve Rogers.”

She doesn’t say she knows, which is a point in her favor on the whole not looking like a stalker front. “Eat up, Steve Rogers,” she instead orders. “It’s one thing to insult my coffee. It’s another thing to insult Meg’s soup.”

As they eat, Darcy chatters away, because that’s obviously one of her strong suits. Steve doesn’t add much, just a quip here and there, but that’s alright because Darcy’s always had a talent for saying more than she needed to anyway. She tells a couple stories about the customers and shares her own observations and thoughts about their possible stories. Of course, it’s completely outlandish and not at all based in reality, but it’s enough to shake some of the heaviness from Steve’s posture. He does manage to quirk a brow once or twice at her more ridiculous theories about a woman Darcy has nicknamed “Brumhilda.”

“She’s terrifying,” Darcy is adamant on this point. Her soup is long gone, as are her rolls, so she has to use an empty hand to gesture for emphasis. “Seriously. This is like Medusa level turn you to stone mythology proportions of scary.”

“What has she done, exactly?” Steve asks, head cocked in curiosity.

“Nothing,” Darcy admits. “She just has that way about her. Like she can peer inside your soul and see every horrible thing you’ve done.”

Steve grins. “I’ve had a few nuns as teachers who were like that. I didn’t have too much to worry about, but my friend was pretty much always in trouble. Still is.”

“Keeping bad company, Steve?” Darcy teases, knowing he has to be referring to Bucky. Not that she’s going to tell him that, of course. 

Steve gives her a small smile, but she can see that worry, that heaviness is back again. For such a little guy, he sure seems ready and willing to carry the entire weight of the world on those scrawny shoulders. “Bucky, my friend,” Darcy refrains from saying ‘duh’ as Steve continues. “He’s back from training and gets to spend a few days here before they ship him out.”

Darcy grins. “Well, it should be an eventful couple of days for you, then, keeping tabs on him.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, a glint of humor returning to his face. “You’re assuming I can keep him out of trouble.”

“Nope,” Darcy says cheerfully. “I’m most certainly assuming he leads you into trouble, though you probably aren’t as innocent as you put on, and then you get both of you guys out of it by putting on the ‘aw, shucks,’ charm. Just try to tell me I’m wrong,” she challenges him with a knowing look.

“You’re not entirely wrong,” Steve admits, amused. “Though Bucky does his own fair bit of charming, too.”

“Troublemakers usually do,” Darcy remarks. “Well, I hope you guys have a good couple days. It’ll be nice for him to have a friend to keep in touch with when he’s over there. I leave for Texas myself in a couple days.” Steve nods and Darcy once again takes in his appearance. Though she wouldn’t know for certain, but given his morose attitude, she wouldn’t be surprised if he tried out for the army the same time his buddy did. And, if her speculations about his health are accurate, the poor guy probably didn’t have a chance. There probably aren’t a fair number of places willing to hire him, either, leaving the man in some rather dire straights. “Say,” she adds as the thought occurs to her, “I’ve picked up a couple odd jobs that’ll need someone to fill in once I’m gone and who better than you? Gimme a piece of paper, I’ll write down the names and addresses for you.” 

Steve stubbornly holds on to his pencil and his stack of papers, his jaw clenched tight as his shoulders push back, head held high. “I won’t take pity, ma’am.”

“It’s not pity and it’s not ma’am,” Darcy retorts, irritated. “It’s looking after good people, which I know the people who’ve given me these jobs are and I think it’s safe to assume you are, too. Am I wrong?” she challenges. Steve reluctantly shakes his head and Darcy nods, satisfied. “Alright then.” She holds out her hand until Steve willing gives up his pencil and a bit of scratch paper. 

Once the items are in hand, she smooths out the slightly crumpled paper on the table in front of her and writes down all the names and addresses. She keeps up a steady steam of chatter while she writes, giving him as much information about the jobs as she can. Once she’s scribbled out all the details she can remember, Darcy passes the paper back to Steve and gives him a firm look while keeping hold of the paper. “Promise me you’ll check them out. Give them a chance. They need someone dependable, someone who isn’t going to forget about them.”

Darcy releases her grasp on the paper when Steve nods, though he still looks doubtful about the whole prospect. “I’ll do my part, but I’m not exactly high on anyone’s list of job candidates.” 

“You do your part and they’ll do theirs,” Darcy promises with a small smile. “Good people, remember?” She catches a glimpse of the clock hanging over the doorway to the kitchen and stacks her dishes with Steve’s to take with her. “And with that, I better get back to work before Evelyn comes out here to lecture me. If I don’t see you around here again before I leave for training, it was nice to meet you, Steve Rogers.”

“You, too, Darcy Lewis.”


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While there is some basis in historical fact, I do take many liberties with events and what women were actually allowed to do as part of their service during WWII as pilots from this point forward in the story. I figure if we can have a super soldier, we can flex the historical role of female pilots, too. Right? 
> 
> Also, while researching for this chapter and the next one, I came across a flight training manual from the era that I thought was pretty cool. You can find the interactive pdf here, if you want to check it out: http://aviationshoppe.com/manuals/pilot_training/primary_flying.html

Darcy spends a large amount of her train ride from New York to Sweetwater, Texas, nearly a two day trip, studying the pilot manual that was in her briefing packet. Though, she does alternate between that and a couple of books she picked up second-hand in a little store on her way to the train station, because there’s only so much time she can spend studying. 

She’s a little worried how much of her knowledge is going to transfer over, since she’s been rather spoiled. She’s not quite sure as to the exact year when radar was invented, but she does know it was right around this time period. Either way, it’s a tool she’s come to rely on and, most likely, she won’t have it at her disposal. Up to this point, she’s worked with cutting edge technology and is now, basically, dropping back practically sixty years in evolution and advancement. The principles are still the same, obviously, so that’s going to be her saving grace. 

The manual is full of plane specifications, including overviews and pictures of the cockpits of one of three planes she’ll use to start her training. It seems so simplistic compared to what she’s used to, but, again, the principles and basics are all there. She just needs to learn how to translate and modify. The biggest change of which is going to be learning to operate the rudder using her feet. Besides, Darcy mentally reassures herself as she pages through the guide yet again, she has time because they aren’t going to put her up in one of their planes alone until she can prove she can handle it. 

Her training lasts for seven months, since they’re being taught the military way from start to finish. The already unseasonably oppressive Texas heat she experiences fresh off the train is a marked difference from the mild spring temperatures of New York. Darcy, who has spent the large majority of her life in the New England region, quickly learns that her only other southern experience in the dry heat and chilly nights of the New Mexico desert is nothing in comparison to having to stand on a paved tarmac under a glaring hot sun, gulf humidity swamping her lungs in the lone star state. 

Once she’s on base, she’s shuffled along with all the other women reporting for training and subjected to another physical exam. Standing in line while waiting for her turn, Darcy looks around for Jo, hoping to spot the familiar face. There are too many people milling around, however, each waiting patiently for their turn again behind the white curtain. 

The exam is basically the same thing she had to go through in New York. She assumes they’re probably just double-checking to make sure she didn’t have someone else take the exam under her name, and the entire process is not really anything worth note. 

Once completed, Darcy is then shuffled off to a classroom along with about ten other women. When she’s seated in the stuffy room, dust particles dancing in the air and the smell that reminds her distinctly of freshly shined linoleum floors, chalk, and pencil shavings, she takes a written exam testing her flight knowledge. Most of what’s covered is basic knowledge that can be pulled from her modern flight classes, questions about control surfaces, hand signals, and traffic control, rather than specifics pertaining to planes of the time. Regardless, there’s an immense feeling of relief once the test is complete and she receives her passing grade. 

The most nerve-wracking part of her day comes from the one-on-one interview. Darcy isn’t even sure what she said during the process, but there must have been something about her that spoke well enough because, at the end, the woman interviewing her held out her hand, officially welcoming Darcy into the program. Darcy’s not quite sure what they would have done with her if they had decided to reject her after this whole production, but she supposes they don’t much care since getting her there isn’t done on their dime. 

With the whirlwind of exams, the basic introduction to the training, and tour of the base completed, she’s settled into on-base housing with about half of her thirty person class. It’s a little cramped, with beds only about two feet apart and running the entire length of the barracks. Bays, she’s told the housing is called, right after being informed she can pick whatever bed she wants. The long, narrow building is stark and impersonal, with white walls and faded brown linoleum tile that she’s pretty sure probably has asbestos in it. The beds are what she thinks of as institutional standard, made with scratchy white sheets and metal frames. Slowly, though, it starts to feel more welcoming as each of the women claim their bunk and settle in. Laughter and awkward greetings start to echo through the room as they get to know each other, sprawling over beds and invading what little space there is to be had.

She unpacks her the few things she brought with her, placing them in the corresponding dresser assigned with her bed. It doesn't take long and, with her canvas duffel empty and shoved under her bunk, she's at a loss as to how to fill her time. They're free for the rest of the day while the other recruits arrive throughout the afternoon and work their way through the interview and testing process. 

Which leaves her with absolutely nothing to do. Other than attempt to go over and socialize with the other women who are slowly trickling into the barracks, which seems like a far more daunting task than it ever used to be. She doesn't know what to talk to them about. She has no references for this era, like movies or music or even anything, really, outside of the war. Also, she's always just been kind of awkward at the small chit chat stuff anyway. It's part of why she's so terrible on blind dates. And first dates, too, to be honest. 

She attempts to talk a little with the woman who takes the rack on the left side of Darcy, but the conversation, though pleasant, is stilted and awkward. Darcy makes some half-hearted excuse about letting the woman, Anne, finish her unpacking. She can see the relief on Anne's face as she turns away and doesn't that just make her feel even more uncomfortable. 

Darcy grabs one of the second-hand books she already finished on the train and takes a seat on her bed. Even if she has to fake reading, it's better than having to see the happiness on someone's face when you finally leave them alone. God, she feels like a plague, a menace. She's starting to second guess her decision to be here, and is just getting going on a good ego bruising when there's a plop of a bag heavy on the end of her bed.

Her head jerks up from her book, ready to tell off the person because it's one thing to be polite and disengaged, but it's an entirely other thing to be outright rude. The words freeze on Darcy's tongue, however, as she sees Jo's familiar and smug face grinning at her.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Jo comments with a cock of her head.

“Yeah, I managed to find my way,” Darcy remarks. Just took a fair chunk of her own money to do so, not to mention that she just found out from one of the other women they have to supply their own clothing. That will be another nice bit of money to cover since she still really doesn’t have much with her in the way of clothing, despite Evelyn letting her have free reign of the odds and ends around the kitchen. Darcy has even less that she can sacrifice as clothing for the physical part of training. 

It’s both disheartening and disgusting to see the differences already between what she’s being alloted and what a male pilot is alloted. Especially when she knows it’ll only get worse, since, even though they’re military trained, will fly military planes, and will respond to orders given by military brass, they’ll receive none of the military benefits like insurance or death benefits. Not a single person is actively complaining about the disparity, though, and Darcy can’t really blame them. No one wants to lose this chance, now that they finally have it, by demanding more than what the higher ups are willing to give.

"Bunk's taken, by the way," Darcy informs the other woman, looking pointedly at the bag still at the end of her bed, then back at Jo with an arch of her eyebrow. All irritation and anger over feeling, well, like an outcast, evaporate at Jo's appearance. She doesn't know the woman that well, but she feels better just knowing she's here. Someone who won't be counting the seconds til Darcy leaves her alone, rolling her eyes when Darcy finally walks away.

Jo jerks her head to the right at the still pristine and military-precise bed. "That one taken, too? Or is that just your subtle way of telling me to shove off?"

Darcy grins. "Nope. All yours."

"Good. Already had a ridiculous time at the train station this morning. I'm not in mood to haggle over a place to sleep, too."

Jo grabs her bag from the end of Darcy’s bed and plops it on the empty one, creasing the covers without a care. She starts pulling items out, tossing them haphazardly around the place with little rhyme or reason, taking over not only the bed, but also the little stand between their beds. 

“Get this memorized yet?” Jo asks, pulling out the beginner’s manual before tossing it on the bed, next to the growing collection, with a bounce. She doesn’t wait for an answer before she returns her attention to empty the rest of her pack.

“Almost,” Darcy replies, completely honest. Between her study at Culver, working with Jane, and the huge log of paper she had to slough through at the law firm on a daily basis, she’s gotten pretty good at being able to read, boil down, and absorb information in a short amount of time. It was basic survival in order to keep up, especially when she was working with Jane, a woman who went a million miles an hour during her downtime. “Had to have something to read on the train ride here.”

Jo tosses a quick look over her shoulders to roll her eyes at Darcy. Her hands are full of clothes that she hastily shoves into her dresser with little ceremony and no organization. The drawer has to be shoved twice, with a hasty rearrangement of the clothes inside, before it’ll shut. Jo catches Darcy shaking her head in exasperation. 

“Better learn to lighten up, Lewis,” she comments, gathering up the last stack of items on her bed and disposing of them in a similar manner. “I’m not going to stick around if you’re going to shove your face in a book all the time.”

“Some of us do have a work ethic, Moynihan,” Darcy replies easily. “Last time I checked, that was pretty much the only thing keeping us from being kicked out of the program.”

“Guess I better find one, then,” Jo remarks, tossing her empty bag under the frame of her bed. She stands then, stretching her spine up on her tip toes, hands on her waist, neck craned, surveying the room. Darcy knows what she sees without having to turn her back. 

While Darcy hasn’t exactly been rude, after her first failed attempt, she also really hasn’t gone out and tried to introduce herself to the rest of their bunk mates, all of whom are quickly acclimating. The excitement of new opportunities is practically buzzing in the room and Darcy is sitting on her bunk, wondering how she’s going to get through the next seven months without going crazy from wanting to just be at the next point where she can finally reconnect with a familiar face. It’s taken a lot of patience to already make it to where she is, but now that she has a plan and options, long-shot though they may be, especially finding one person in an entire war front, she just wants it to be done. It probably isn’t fair to take her impatience out on people she barely knows, though, Darcy acknowledges to herself. 

“C’mon,” Jo orders, grabbing Darcy’s wrist to yank her off the bed. Jo’s already dragging her towards the group of women, even as she continues talking. “Let’s see if we can get you properly socialized. It’d be rather poor form for you to only talk to me while you’re here. Plus, pretty boring for you when I do finally find that work ethic.”

As Darcy comes to experience, it isn’t the first time Jo drags her into a group of people. She wants to be annoyed about it, honestly. After all, part of her wants to be left alone so she can just get through what she needs to in order to get where she needs, but Jo is dogged and won’t give up on her. And, eventually, Darcy learns to be grateful at the other woman’s meddling because, as she spends more time around Jo and the other women, she starts to feel more like herself. She might not get all the references, but she gets enough to laugh at the jokes. She picks up more as time goes on, especially when the inside jokes start, as are going to happen anytime you have a group of people pretty much contained to each other for a long period of time. 

Jo acts as her guide to this world, without question or need, and Darcy can’t even begin to express how much she appreciates the gesture. So, instead, she stops complaining and starts following Jo headfirst without question. It feels like the least she can do when Jo has already done the same for her.  
***  
Classes start bright and early the next day. Darcy isn’t quite sure what she was expecting, but nine weeks spent learning how to do paperwork was definitely not at the top of her list. It’s probably one of the most boring things she’s had to sit through and that completely beats out Coulson dryly explaining the gag order paperwork after the New Mexico incident. “Section one point five subsection A categorization alpha delta twenty-five states…” Yeah. She’s still 95% certain he was pulling a hundred percent of that out of his ass. Throw enough letters and numbers before stating your point and anyone is going to zero out.  
The one upside is at least they’re allowed to hand-write the information onto the various forms. Which still gives her a bit of a work-out because she hasn’t taken notes long-hand since college. Though, she’s not going to complain because if she had to sit at a typewriter and try to peck her way through without a backspace key, not only would she run out of whiteout, but she’d also need at least another eighteen weeks of paperwork training just to finish her forms from the nine weeks.  
She’s surprised, as classes go on, just how much being here is almost like being back at Xavier’s. It’s a similar environment, in that they’re a small group of people learning and training for a common purpose together. There’s a camaraderie that comes from the training, from the expectation of the recruits. Darcy is easily caught up in the excitement and bonding that comes from living close with these women, building friendships outside of the one she has with Jo.  
She’s also pleasantly shocked the first time they have a mail call and her name is actually announced. It takes a nudge from Jo before she realizes that, yes, she is the Darcy Lewis they just called. The package the officer places in her hands is just the first of quite a number of letters and treats from Meg and Evelyn back in New York. It’s a gesture that warms her heart, especially since she wasn’t with them that long. It’s a feeling that stays with her each time she gets to hear her name at mail call, to know that there’s someone in this decade that cares. She writes back as much as she can to show her appreciation not only of their time, but also their thoughts. And for Meg’s cookies. Definitely for the cookies, which she grudgingly doles out to her fellow pilots.

What really surprises her, though, is that she receives a letter from Steve. It’s just the one, where he thanks her for the odd jobs she steered him towards, but he has a new offer that he’s going to pursue. He tells her not to worry, though, he made sure to set up each of her former employers with a new hand to help out. She’s happy for him, but curiosity has her wondering what he’s gotten himself into. Propriety keeps her from nagging him about it in her return letter. Not that she could do much where she is, anyway, if he has managed to land into something less than savory. Either way, she tells herself that he can take care of himself. He was doing it long before she ever met him and the fact that he has sad eyes doesn’t stop him from being able to do it now.

She does wonder, however, on occasion, where this sense of responsibility came from. She thinks it’s partly from her fondness for him at the kitchen, both him and Bucky. Though she can’t say she really knows either man, they both hold a place in her history here. The other part is based on her years at Xavier’s school where, no matter what issues you might have had with someone, you still looked out for them. As a mutant, as a member of a potentially targeted group, they couldn’t count on how public opinion would sway from week to week, which made for strange, but welcome, bedfellows.  
During her first nine weeks, in addition to the paperwork that wasn’t an entirely unexpected but pretty much unwelcome part of her training, she also undergoes both physical and military training. The athletic portion makes her rather regretful that she didn’t keep up with her grueling X-Men training. It’s never been something she’s particularly enjoyed, but she’s forgotten how good it feels to stretch her muscles. With her mutation, her body naturally runs at a higher energy level, constantly repairing and replacing any and all damage. It leaves her in peak condition, which results in her getting antsy when she doesn’t have enough to keep the energy occupied.  
She also learns how to assemble and disassemble several different gun models in record time, along with how to make a gun secure if she comes across one from an enemy combatant. Not that there’s a high likelihood of that happening, but she likes the training anyway. It’s completely new knowledge for her because, despite the amount of firepower the X-Men might have invested in their aircraft, by they pretty much zero guns, other than the ones in the Danger Room. Instead, students are taught to rely on and develop their mutations, which is a fine idea in theory, but, as Darcy is coming to realize more and more, might not be the best in practice. Especially for a mutation like hers, where it’s basically defensive, not offensive.  
They aren’t given much time on the range with the weapons to work on their shooting since it isn’t a priority for women, which rubs Darcy wrong. There isn’t much she can do about it, though. Still, she does the best she can with the short amount of time she has and, by the end of their target practice, she’s actually a half-decent shot with a .45 pistol. She won’t be winning any bulls-eye competitions, but she feels comfortable enough with a gun in her hand to use it, if she needs to, and that’s worth something.  
Finally, at the end of of nine weeks and an undisclosed number of white out bottles later, the paperwork section, along with the physical and military training, is over, thank freaking Thor. The group moves out of pre-flight training and into primary training for the next nine weeks.   
It’s the part she’s both been anxiously waiting for and, at the same time, dreading. She knows she has to get back in the cockpit, but, as they get closer and closer to their first flight with an instructor, Darcy’s nightmares, which had taken a backseat since her arrival in Texas, decide it’s about time they make another visit to her nightly dreams. More than once, she wakes up to the feeling of the icy grip of the Hudson refuses to release her, sending her shooting straight up in her bed, heart racing as she fights for breath. She’s pushing back the dreams, though, at least as best she can, especially since there are so many other people sleeping next to her now.   
She doesn’t need them to know what haunts her.   
Besides, she’s fairly certain that, once she’s back in control, once she’s up in the air and can have a successful flight, that’ll go a long way towards finally silencing the dreams. It’s the unknown that’s haunting her and she needs resolution. She needs to know that she’s still in control and won’t let fear freeze her up.  
Of course, there’s more classroom work to be done, learning the controls of their specific plane, along with the checklists and all the other basics. Darcy spends her nights memorizing the specifications of the PT-19 she’s been assigned, including the layout of the cockpit and all the things she’s going to have to monitor during her flight, along with the proper ranges for all the gages. Finally, on a sunny afternoon, diagrams racing through her mind, Darcy stands alongside Jo on the tarmac of their airfield with the four other students scheduled to go up on their first flight that day.  
As they watch their fellow students go up one by one, Darcy can feel her heart clenching tight in her chest. Her eyes are glued to every take off, her breath held during every landing. Once the plane comes to a stop, she lets out the hard and shaky breath she’s been holding in, earning her a look or two from Jo. They watch another plane come in for a landing, the last one before Darcy’s turn. Darcy is standing stock still, shoulders tense and hunched, staring as the plane touches down, then continues to drive over to the group. Jo gives her a hard nudge with her shoulder.  
“You got this,” Jo reassures her when Darcy turns to look at her. “Just get in there, fly with the instructor. You’ll take it nice and slow the first time out.”  
Her jaw is tight, sure, certain, and her eyes are fixed on Darcy’s. “They’ll handle it if they need to,” Jo tells her, her tone matter-of-fact. “But they won’t have to, will they? Then, when you and I can go out on our own, I’ll make you work for it. Make you finally back up all that big talk you were spouting in New York.”  
Darcy takes a deep, shuddering breath, and nods her head. 

“Good,” Jo says, encouragingly. “Now just take a real breath and get up there. You’ve got this.”

Darcy lets out a small huff of breath with a smile, then makes a big show of taking a legitimate one. 

“Thanks,” she tells Jo, who waves off the words of gratitude. She points to the plane where the instructor is making the final marks on their tally sheet before dismissing the woman standing there, waiting. Darcy offers a grateful squeeze to Jo’s hand and walks away, reporting to the instructor for her turn.

Once in the cockpit, her nerves finally start to settle. She’s steady, she knows this. The dash is somewhat foreign looking, compared to the one she’s used to, but there’s enough familiarity there to be comforting, to help steady her. Still, she can’t help but feel a deep pang of longing twinging hard in her chest for the Nighthawk with it’s sleek lines and modern marvels. Instead, she’s left with something that looks like the joystick of an arcade game and a plane that feels like it’s being held together by wills, wishes, and luck, even though she knows it’s actually probably at the top of the line for production for the time. That doesn’t help much in reassuring her, though.

She remembers Jo’s words as she goes through the checklist, verbalizing each step to the instructor seated behind her. As she’s going through her list, Darcy starts up the engine for take-off. The plane shudders with the vibrations of the engine, which putters and puffs before finally catching. She’s jittering in her seat and this time, it isn’t from nerves. Darcy can’t help but think back to an old cartoon from Saturday mornings long ago, maybe it was Looney Toons or something along those lines, of a Red Baron style plane starting up with a put put put, much like hers is now, only to collapse upon itself in a heap of broken timber and smoke. Darcy’s hoping hers manages to hold out a little bit longer than the sad cartoon one did.

With approval from the instructor seated behind her, Darcy steers the plane forward to line it up on the runway. Once she has clearance from the tower, she pushes the throttle, the little joystick in her hand, and the plane starts down the runway in earnest. It’s not the smoothest take-off she’s managed, and it certainly takes a lot more effort to get it into the air than the Nighthawk, but it’s in no way the worst. Once in the air, the plane feels more competent under her hands and she can’t help but grin over the chance to be up in the air again.

As she steadies the plane, Darcy feels like she’s back on the top of the world. It’s just her, the roar of the wind and the twin engines keeping her company far above the checkered fields of green. A sense of balance, of normalcy and certainty, fills her. It grounds her and, in this moment, she feels like she can take on anything the world decides to throw at her.

She gets through all the checks and requirements the instructor communicates to her through the mic for her first flight and, all too soon, finds herself back on the ground. The landing is a little more rough than she’d like, bumping and jerking both Darcy and the instructor, but she thinks that, now that she has a handle and a feel for the plane, she’ll be able to set it down without a hitch next time.

After the plane lands and she’s given her marks, Darcy gives a loud whoop of victory and runs to Jo. She throws her arms around the other woman, hopping and twirling with giddy laughter while hugging Jo tight. When she pulls back, still high on excitement and adrenaline, she hooks her elbow through Jo’s, pulling the woman around in a dancing loop. Jo spins her around, easily caught up in the excitement, laughing and telling Darcy that she told her so.

Darcy rolls her eyes, but only lets go of Jo when her name is called to do her own first solo flight. Fortunately, her flight also goes off without a hitch. It isn’t until dinner when the adrenaline rush finally wears off and Darcy is clear-headed enough to think back to Jo’s words before she took off.

“How’d you know?” Darcy asks Jo. Jo swallows her bite of reconstituted mashed potatoes, giving Darcy a puzzled look at the out of the blue question. 

“This afternoon,” Darcy clarifies. “I mean, yeah, I probably looked like a wreck and that was a major tip-off, but how’d you know for sure?”

“I heard you wake up a couple times at night,” Jo states nonchalantly with an off-hand shrug, as if it’s an everyday occurrence. “I was able to hear enough to figure out you took a bad flight. None of my business to make a big deal out of it, though, unless it’s going to affect other people.” 

She pauses to dip her head slightly, her eyes boring into Darcy’s in a pointed expression. “Is it?”

Darcy shakes her head. “No, it won’t be. I’m good now. I wouldn’t go up again if I knew I couldn’t. Especially since we’ll have other people depending on us when we’re doing transport flights.”

Jo grins. “Figured you were fine once you started doing your little victory dance. Which is good, because now that you’ve got your head on straight, you might actually be a somewhat decent pilot.”

“Just somewhat decent?” Darcy asks, mildly insulted. She raises her eyebrows in challenge, tipping her head to the side. “What happened to flying the loop-di-loops with one hand tied behind my back and blindfolded that you talked about in New York?”

Jo points her spoon at Darcy. “Don’t get cocky. You haven’t proven anything yet.”

Darcy grins. “Just stick around. I will.”

***

During the nine weeks in primary, they have three pilots wash out of the program, unable to complete the requirements for a solo flight without a trainer sitting in the plane with them. Darcy does her first solo flight after ten hours in the air and the required twenty-five landings with a trainer. Jo is right on her heels, soloing the same day. 

She still has to log over sixty flight hours after that solo flight, part of which is done towing a target behind her plane so the male fighter pilots at the surrounding training bases can get in some target practice. More than once, she has the tail of her plane hit with a stray shot, both on accident and done intentionally. 

One of the pilots actually hits Jo’s plane on purpose with the intention of forcing her to land and giving him a chance to talk to her. Apparently, Darcy finds out later, he had caught a glimpse of her before she took off and thought he needed an opportunity to ask her out on a date. Needless to say, Jo set him straight on the matter pretty damn fast when she came barreling out of her plane to give him a piece of her mind. 

Even though Jo gets in trouble for the way she dressed down the enlisted man, she still declares it was worth it. And though she wasn’t the one that had to suffer through kitchen duty, Darcy agrees because after that, shots to the tails of their planes decrease dramatically. There are still a few guys who think it’s funny to see if they can get the women worked up or freaked out, though. There isn’t much they can do, other than get back up in the plane and prove that a few pot shots aren’t going to shake them.

Several more pilots wash out once they start learning loops, rolls, and how to stall out the plane while in the air. This is the part Darcy excels at, once she gets used to the limitations of her plane. These are moves she knows like the back of her hand, though they might have a bit of rust on them since Scott first taught her and then demanded her proficiency. 

There are a few moves she knows, also, that aren’t in the books, because they’re attack tactics and the female pilots don’t get to learn those ones. She shares the movements with some of the other women, scratched out during dinner in dull pencil and folded over paper that they can keep in their training manuals until they’re scheduled for another flight. With all the hours demanded in the air, there’s even a chance to try them out, so long as there isn’t an instructor flying along or watching you from the ground that day to mark your proficiency.

Darcy actually starts to feel at home, for the first time since she’s been in the past. So far, it’s all been about survival up to this point, getting from point A to point B without knowing, really, what the next step is going to be. She knows her plan, she knows what comes next, and there’s a sense of relief in the fact that, if she lets herself, she can just enjoy the moment she’s in right now. She still feels so limited in her resources, with her money dwindling rapidly with each new pair of trousers she has to purchase, but right now it’s something she can handle. It’s a small concern in the larger scheme. 

She does watch the other women, half of whom are younger than her, some of them barely at the eighteen cut-off, and feels a pang of longing for the girl she used to be. Especially when she sees the carefree laughing over meals and how there’s no concern over where their next round of supplies are going to be coming from since most of them receive weekly support from home.

But, that girl was young and naive, both in good and bad ways. She might have been more innocent, but she was also more likely to get hurt. Darcy likes who she is now. She doesn’t regret growing up and becoming the person she is, especially since it lets her stand on her own two feet right now, when she needs it most.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you guys for reading. You're a wonderful group of people and I'm very happy that you're enjoying the story. Especially since it's a bit on the longer end and, I think, that's always harder to have to go on an update by update basis. So thank you, so much, for your patience.

About three months into training, a new heat wave beats down on them, bringing temperatures that refuse to cool off even long after the sun has sunk over the hills. The air is stuffy and still in all the buildings on base, with the air movement from the few fans that have been set up barely making a dent. 

The bays at night are the worst. Even with the door and the few windows the building actually has left wide open, it’s hard to get any fresh air actually in the building. That, combined with the heat of so many bodies crammed into such a small space, leaves sleep as practically an impossibility. The only ones even remotely comfortable are the few with their beds in the prized positions directly underneath or across from the open windows and, unfortunately, Darcy isn’t even close to being one of those.

With a frustrated sigh, Darcy pushes herself up from her bed. She lifts her sweat damped hair from the back of her neck, feeling completely gross and disgusting as she attempts to wave her hand and get any air movement possible. It’s a vain attempt, one that only serves to warm her up even further. With a noise of disgust, she looks out the door at the cool inviting night sky and an idea comes to her.

“C’mon,” Darcy whispers as she leans over the space between their beds tug on the blanket underneath Jo. The other woman is awake and flopped out wide on her bed like a starfish, trying to keep any of her limbs from touching each other. “It’s unbearable in here.”

“Yeah, kind of picked up on that,” Jo retorts in an irritated whisper, sliding a half-eyed glare in Darcy’s direction. “What’s the plan?”

“We’re taking my mattress and sleeping out under the stars. Has to be better than being stuck in here.”

Jo sits up in her bed, a contemplative look crossing her face in the moonlight. She shrugs and stands, walking over to the edge of Darcy’s mattress. “What the heck. I’m game. We might catch hell from the higher ups, but it wouldn’t be the first time. And at least it’ll be after a full night’s sleep.”

Darcy grins as she flops her sheets back, rolling them into a ball she can tuck under her arm to carry out. She has no patience to try to fold them nice and neat right now. 

“That’s the idea. Grab your clock,” she gestures to the table between their beds. Jo tosses it in the middle of Darcy’s sheets and she wraps the cloth around the clock to take with them. “We’ll set it early enough that we can haul everything back in before the morning bell and roll-call. Might save us at least one strip of skin being torn from our hides.”

Between the two of them, they manage to get the twin mattress out of the barracks with relative ease, only bumping or tripping in the dark room once or twice. A few of the women sit up in their beds, watching the pair as they pass, but nobody stops them. In fact, a few of them start to partner up and follow out with their own mattresses. The heat has everyone long past caring.

Once outside, they flop the mattress down on a clear patch of grass. Darcy spreads out the sheets while Jo runs back in to grab their pillows. It’s already several degrees cooler, the air chilling the sweat that glistens on her skin and sending a small shiver of delight down Darcy’s back. With the bed haphazardly made, good enough for one night’s sleep, it’s actually a relief to climb under the sheets. There’s a light breeze in the air, enough that Darcy tucks the edges around her to keep it from nipping at her now chilled skin. 

Cocooned in her blankets, she already feels a thousand times better than she did in the racks. She lets out a happy sigh as she burrows deeper into the blankets. Every once in awhile, she can feel Jo shift next to her, her body brushing against Darcy’s on the small twin mattress as they try to get comfortable. Eventually, they settle shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, close and together in a way that reminds her of her nights in Westchester, of gossip and sleepovers. It invites an intimacy, a closeness, that she’s surprised to realize how much she’s missed. 

Crickets are chirping in the distance and, every once in awhile, she can hear the motor of a car going by, full of soldiers returning to one of the other nearby bases. Sometimes the passing car fills the air with whoops, whistles, and catcalls of the men who know they’re passing the female base, but, for the most part, it’s peaceful. 

With her head pillowed on her arm, even though she’s much more comfortable now than she was in he stuffy barracks, Darcy still can’t close her eyes to sleep. Instead, she finds herself watching the starry sky, wide open and unhindered over the rolling Texas landscape. Even back at Xavier’s mansion, she’s never had a view as uninterrupted as she does now. There are no trees on the horizon and it feels like being back in the desert with Jane, chasing stars and astrological anomalies.

Being curled up next to Jo on the mattress reminds her of being back in college, those nights with roommates when, long after they were both in bed, they’d talk in the darkness of their shared room. The stillness and the shadows invited intimacies between friends, words and revelations that would have been haltingly spoken of in the harsh light of day are told with a willingness and an invitation to understand.

“No matter where I am, no matter what sky I’m under, I can’t help but want to be up there, weaving through the air currents,” Jo says, breaking the silence. Her hand is outstretched in front of her, reaching up, fingers spread wide, as if she can grasp at the air and pull herself up into it’s embrace. 

“Things are different on the ground in each country. Different issues, different problems. Different hate. But the sky?” Jo pauses, her tone reverent, full of awe. With the moon full and bright, Darcy can see the hope, the faith, glimmering in Jo’s eyes when she turns to look at the woman lying next to her. “The sky doesn’t care. It doesn’t care if you’re a woman, if you’re a man, if you’re white, if you’re black. It all drops away as the altitude climbs. So long as you can ride the currents, nothing else matters.”

“Is that why you started flying?” Darcy asks, shifting her body to the side, making it easier to look at Jo.

“No, that was just a nice side benefit,” Jo answers with a grin. “One that I didn’t even know could exist. I grew up on a farm in the Midwest. Iowa. You ever been?” Darcy shakes her head. The closest she’s ventured into the Midwest was Ohio and that was entirely by mistake during a college road trip to Florida where they ended up driving for a much longer time than she’ll ever admit in the wrong direction. 

Jo shrugs. “Not exactly a main attraction, so can’t say I blame you. Stereotypical cows and grain, but it worked well enough for us. My dad, he was a pilot in the first World War. Didn’t talk much about it, but always took whatever chance he could to get back up in the air. Think it was the only way he could outrun the memories that haunted him, to make new ones that were pure joy. Eventually, he bought a crop duster, a nice bright apple red biplane, and rented out his services to the other farmers in the area. The first time he took me up, he let me steer, probably for only about five seconds, but it felt like the world to me.”

Darcy nods, knowing the exact feeling she’s talking about. It was the same for her, when she first sat in the copilot chair of the Blackbird. She knew better than to even think about touching the controls of Scott’s baby, but just seeing the open blue sky out in front of her was addictive. She wanted more, so much more of it. It was practically a craving, clawing deep at her soul.

“Eventually, once I was old enough, he started teaching me and I was able to get my pilot’s license,” Jo continues. “I took over some of the flights for him, especially since he’s getting up in age and it isn’t as easy for him to climb in and out of the plane.”

“What made you go out to New York, then?” Darcy asks. 

“I was already going to start classes at Sarah Lawrence when the war broke out,” Jo shrugs. “Knew I’d sign up for some branch of the service to do my part, just didn’t know I’d get the chance to be a pilot. Dad knew it, too, that I’d barrel in headfirst to the war. Could tell in his letters from home. My mom’s been gone for almost ten years now, so I’m pretty much all he has. Anyway, I dropped out of my enrollment and came to New York. Worked in a factory for a few weeks while I decided which branch to enlist. Being a pilot was a given once they announced they were taking women, especially since I already desperately missed flying.”

“Then you met me and I’ve been dragged along in your schemes ever since,” Darcy adds.

“Don’t hear you complaining,” Jo retorts with a raised eyebrow.

“True,” Darcy acknowledges. 

“What about you?” Jo asks, twisting her body to look at Darcy. “What you got interested in flying?”

Darcy lays back down on the mattress and stares up at the sky, weighing her words, deciding which ones to parse out for her edited story. 

“My parents died when I was about ten,” she tells Jo. She doesn’t add that it was from a mutant hate attack, that her parents, with their relatively defenseless and low level mutations, were easily overtaken by the mob that purposely sought them out. The X-Men might have been able to take her in, given her a home and an education, but they were too late to save her parents. 

“Anyway,” Darcy continues, pushing through the awkward silence. She’s grateful, though, that Jo silences the urge to offer up condolences for people she never knew.

“I went to live at a boarding school. One of the teachers had a plane and would occasionally take the students up as a treat. I feel in love the first time I went up,” she says with a grin, remembering how she practically pleaded for Scott to flip and turn the plane in the most dramatic displays of showmanship. He completely indulged her, especially after she was able to prove that her stomach could take it.

“The next day, there were two books on my desk. The first was a history of aviation, full of first-hand accounts. The other one was a beginner’s training manual. I devoured both, soaking up every detail that I could.”

“And that was that,” Jo remarks. Darcy nods. There was no turning back after that first flight and she’s pretty sure Scott knew that, too, as soon as their feet hit the ground.

“They know you signed up?” Jo asks. 

“No,” she says, shaking her head with a small smile, picturing the somewhat outraged expression on Scott’s face if he knew she was fighting in one of the biggest wars of their history. Logan, too, had a surprisingly protective tendency towards the students, but he was also more willing to push their limits and this feels like something he’d be alright with. The professor, well, he would have his concerned but supportive expression that she’s come to know practically by heart. “But I don’t think they’d be surprised. It’s the kind of thing they would do.”

Jo nods and lets the conversation drop. Darcy’s eyes are finally heavy and, with the sounds of the other women sleeping around them, she eventually drifts off to sleep, Jo curled up tight next to her.

***

A month later, the weather finally cuts them a break and drops down to a more manageable temperature. The entirety of their bay has taken to hauling out as few mattresses as possible each night to share. Fewer mattresses means it takes less time bringing them in before the morning bell rings. Command, thankfully, turns a blind eye, so long as everything is back in place by the time the women are to report for duty.

Reports of the first female pilot causality come in early in the week. It’s a jarring reminder of the reality they’ve all signed up for; a remind that, despite the fact they’ll mostly be transporting planes and not in aerial combat, they’ll still be under attack. The excited air now contains a solemn note, even as each woman dedicates herself more diligently to her studying. Everyone seems to be operating on the blind hope that memorizing one more evasive maneuver pattern can spell the difference between life and death.

“They’ll let us die for them, but they’ll still call us civilians,” Darcy remarks bitterly to Jo later that night. She knows this. Just like she knows that, at the end of the war, the WASPs will be disbanded and it’ll be thirty years before they’re granted military status. 

“It was a struggle to even get the WASPs approved,” Jo reminds her with a defeated sigh. She flops back on her bed, turning her head just enough to look at Darcy. “It’ll be even more of a struggle to keep it going once the war is over and they can’t justify it any longer. We’ll all be sent back to be cute little housewives who have a cocktail ready for our man when he gets home at 5:15 in our perfect homes with our two kids and the dog. White pickets fences are going to be our thank you. We’ll be told to be grateful if our husband manages to wipe the lipstick from his mistress off of his cheek before he comes home."

“Just because that’s what we’re told we get doesn’t mean that’s what we settle for,” Darcy replies stubbornly. 

“It’s a nice thought,” Jo tells her, sadly, like a woman who already knows her story is written. “Naive, but nice.”

They complete the instrument training, along with night flights, which Darcy can’t say she’s too much of a fan of. She’s not used to relying solely on a watch for her time, along with a map and a compass to keep her on course. Plus, they hear the horror stories of pilots being lost when they fly over the water at night, since there are no lights or landmarks to even try to make out at a lower altitude to orientate yourself if you get off track from your preplanned route. It’s easy to assume the pilots would have tried to orientate themselves with celestial navigation, flying by the stars, but, most likely, by the time they figured out where they were, the planes would have run out of fuel and the pilot is, inevitably, lost to the sea. 

After hearing the stories, Darcy becomes diligent about plotting out her route before taking off. She marks her time checks, keeping her book close to her in her plane to record her speed, and her compass out on the dash to be continually monitored. Jo doesn’t seem as anxious, but she was also trained not knowing any other way, so this is old habit to her. For Darcy, it’s a skill she was taught in her initial courses, but one she never used since she’s always had the technology to tell her what she needed to know.

Finally, they enter into the last nine weeks and start on the advanced training portion. The training has become more demanding, especially now that they’re expected to become proficient in both single-engine and multi-engine planes.

While the women are have only been approved for transportation and scouting missions, they’re required to fulfill all the demands asked of by the male fighter pilot recruits. This means Darcy ends up memorizing more plane schematics than she thought was even possible. Her proficiency is required for bombers, the fighter planes, and the transport planes because it’s never known what type of plane she might have to ferry around for repairs or reassignment. 

It’s on one of those nights, with too much time spent looking at charts and information, when Jo tosses her book off her bed onto the floor with a resounding thump. Darcy doesn’t even look up from where her face is buried in her own book, the image breakdown of the cockpit and specifications of a P-70 Havoc burning into her retinas. Jo’s hand tugging on her arm, practically sending her face first into the book laid out in front of her, though, does get her attention.

“C’mon,” Jo urges, tugging again to pull Darcy up from her bed. “My eyes are blurry to the point where I can’t even read. The words are just little fuzzy black squiggles. Besides,” she adds, finally letting go of Darcy to dive under her bed, pulling out her trunk containing all her clothes she hasn’t needed for training. “It’s been far too long since we had any fun.”

Darcy tips her head to the side, about to disagree, when she realizes Jo is right. Plus, she’s eager for the break. The knowledge she’s had to absorb in the past few months is practically swimming in her head right now, threatening to all spill out on the ground. 

“What are you thinking?” she asks, pulling out her own trunk with it’s much more meager offerings. She glances over to see Jo has pulled out a knee-length deep crimson dress that’ll fling out just right during the fast dances the other girls have been trying to teach her at night. 

It is, apparently, a great tragedy when it’s discovered that Darcy really doesn’t know how to dance. Though, she could have taught them a thing or two about club dancing, but that really isn’t applicable. With the radio blaring out the best of the 40s, the girls each take turns teaching Darcy their favorite dances. She picks up on the moves pretty quick, remembering some of them from the week of dance she had to do in practically every gym class, back when the grade school boys would complain about having to touch the girls.

They still have the radio on at night when the women are studying, playing softly in the background. A few war updates are given between the breaks and Darcy has come to fall in love with some of the radio shows. But, honestly, her favorite part is probably when Glen Miller’s “Moonlight Cocktail” comes on. No matter what she’s in the middle of, Jo will immediately toss it aside and force Darcy to dance with her, swaying to the lyrics of her favorite song.

Darcy pulls out a little black number she bought before she left New York. She figures a little black dress is always going to be a classic standby. Jo had pursed her lips the first time she saw it and immediately grabbed some fake flowers from her trunk to dot Darcy’s hair in order to give her some more color. 

“The world is drab enough as it is already, darling,” Jo informed her, fixing the flower over her ear. “You don’t need to add to it by wearing all black.”

Now, Darcy is holding the dress up, wishing she would have splurged on the vibrant blue one that had initially caught her eye. Jo looks up from where she’s digging around in the side table between their beds. 

“Try the red one,” she tells Darcy with a tip of her head to the dress that’s laying out on Jo’s bed. “I can’t pull off that color, don’t know what I was thinking when I bought it. It’ll look decadent against your skin tone, though.”

Darcy doesn’t even argue as she tosses her own dress back into the trunk. She’s come to learn that Jo is a force of nature when she gets something stuck in her head. Besides, there’s a part of her, a small, probably materialistic part, that misses having pretty things. And this dress definitely qualifies. 

Jo is already back digging around the table, pulling out her sparse amount of make-up. The other woman is definitely planning a night out if she’s digging into her reserves. A few of the other women start digging out their trunks at Jo’s invitation, also eager to toss aside a night of studying for some frivolity. Someone turns up the radio that’s in the corner, scanning until they hit a station playing music instead of a show, and Darcy can’t help but sway as she starts changing. 

Of course, while Jo is putting on her make-up in the mirror, her favorite song, the one she’s made Darcy dance to at least ten times in the last two weeks, comes on. Sure enough, Jo starts singing, her tone deaf voice mangling the melody, but her enjoyment more than makes up for it. 

“Stir for a couple of hours, til dreams come true,” Darcy chimes in as she pulls on the dress, knowing the sparse lyrics by heart.

“As for the number of kisses,” Jo sings, looking at Darcy through the mirror with a wiggle of her eyes, “it’s up to you.”

Darcy shakes her head and rolls her eyes. With Jo’s help, she gets the lines painted up the back of her legs to imitate the stockings none of them have. Darcy does the same for Jo, pretty proud at how straight she manages to get the line. By the time they’re ready to leave, they’re a group of about fifteen heading to one of the local dance halls frequented by the recruits.

Once there, Jo gets them both drinks and they settle in at a table placed off to the side of the dance floor. A few of the girls don’t wait for guys to come up to ask them to dance and, instead, take off for the floor to dance with each other. Darcy’s fine with sitting on the sidelines for now, though, enjoying the music.

Jo is tapping her foot along to the beat, humming tonelessly under her breath as the band switches into another song. When she returns with another drink for them, she points out a group of recruits to Darcy with a tip of her head. They’re a group of five or six, all in uniform with their brass polished and shining, standing near the bar watching the pair of them. Jo gives them a little wave and Darcy feels obligated to do the same. She turns her attention away immediately after, not waiting to see if any of them respond as she finished off the last of her first drink.

Jo gives her a studying look as she takes a sip from her fresh drink. 

“You got a fella?” she asks, lighting up a cigarette. She blows out a stream of smoke from the side of her mouth, away from the pair. She fixes Darcy with a look, eyebrow raised. “If so, I’m very insulted I haven’t heard about him yet.”

“Nope,” Darcy replies, her lips popping on the ‘p’ as she speaks the truth. It had been a long dry spout even before she had been tossed back to the past. She’d had a one-night hook-up a few weeks into her new job and had found the entire encounter boring and awkward, which are two words she never wants to have to attribute to sex. She’d never had to work so damn hard for an orgasm in her life.

After that disaster, though she still occasionally went out with her coworkers for drinks after work, she always went home alone. It was easier. One night stands had reached the point where they were simply tiresome and she knew better than to expect more from a man she picks up at a bar. 

Besides that, she has too many secrets, even more now, to feel comfortable even attempting to date someone who is, well, normal. Someone who has no idea about the mutant thing or how involved she is, or at least planned to be, with the X-Men. 

Now, she’s starting to wonder, too, if part of it comes from all the growing up she did after the Thor incident. She has different expectations, not only for herself, but for others, especially romantic partners, now that her world view has expanded. Maybe she can partially blame Thor, but she can also blame the professor and Scott and, even with all his crazy faults and short-comings, Logan, also. At least a little bit. Because each of them, all of them, are good men on the inside and she’s tired of wasting time, energy, and effort on someone who’s only good in bed. Half the time, not even then. There’s a desire for something more that she isn’t even sure where to find or to even start looking. So she hasn’t tried.

Darcy takes another slow sip of her drink, pleasantly surprised that Jo brought her a whiskey this time. It’s a slow burn down her throat, a hint of smoke and molasses.

Jo grins. “You sure you don’t want a fella?” she asks, gesturing with her glass in a mock toast once again to the group of men standing at the end of the bar. 

“Nope,” Darcy repeats. She steals one of the cigarettes from Jo’s case that’s sitting on the table, swiping the pack of matches, too. It’s not a vice she usually indulges in, but she figures she might as well give her healing factor something to do. Plus, it gives her hands something to fiddle with while talking. It’s a nervous twitch she’s never fully managed to ditch, always finding bits of paper or the straw in her drink to twirl and spin. 

“Besides,” she adds, leaning back in her chair once she has the cigarette lit. She crosses one of her legs over the other, balancing her drink in her hand. “They’re too much trouble.” 

And, frankly, the last thing on her mind is forming yet another attachment that might suddenly disappear in the blink of a bright shiny beam of doom. She still has no clue if she’s here on a permanent basis, though it’s certainly shaping up that way since she’s entering month six on her time in the past with no indication that she’s about to be ripped through space and time back to her home. Or even to someplace entirely new, which is a concern she has haunting her in the middle of the night, when her mind likes to run wild. It was unknown tech she interacted with. She has no idea how far-reaching it’s control could be.

Not that the threat of disappearing has prevented her from making friends. Trying to be an island, to hold herself apart, is too painful, especially when Jo’s personality is like the old Darcy. She doesn’t take no for an answer and Darcy has an immense amount of sympathy for Jane and the way Darcy barged her way into the scientist’s life.

Jo lets out a barking laugh, drawing the attention, and then appreciation, of two men standing behind her. 

“Ain’t that the half of it,” she crows. “Though, the ones in their uniforms, all spic and span, they might be worth half that trouble.” She has a wicked gleam as she leans forward and adds in a low voice, “At least for one night.”

Sure enough, at Jo’s look once again to the group at the end of the bar, two of the men break off and come over to chat. They’re certainly handsome, with their hair slicked to the side and the dress uniform always has pushed certain buttons for Darcy. She makes no absolutely no apologies for it.

As the two men stand and chat beside their table, Darcy realizes there’s a switch. Normally, she’d be completely game, doing some heavy flirting, a bit of touching. Letting her hand rest on his arm, inviting him closer. Because the guy she’s talking to, Jack, she finds out, is completely her type. Dark haired with light eyes, classically handsome features, and an easy infectious grin that has her smiling back. He’s a pilot, thankfully one that apparently hasn’t shot at her while in the air, so she doesn’t have to give him a hard time about that. 

And, she realizes, this is exactly what Jo meant. It really is time that she starts having fun. She can dance and laugh with Jack and not worry about there being a tomorrow for them. He’s a soldier, just like she is. It’s simply about company, about having someone to help pass the time. It’s about finding connections with people, enjoying a bit of humanity and frivolity before you have to head back into the world of war and death.

With that idea in mind, Darcy takes his proffered hand and lets him lead her out on the dance floor. The song changes right as they take their place, moving from something slow to something fast and energetic. With Jack taking the lead, she spins and turns, her skirt flying out in a crimson haze. She doesn’t get all the steps right, but ends up laughing with Jack over the mistakes. He doesn’t seem to mind, from the way he’s grinning and keeping her for ‘just one more dance.’

As they spin around the floor, Darcy catches enough of a glance of Jack out of the corner of her eye to prompt the image of dark hair, brilliant blue eyes and a knowing smile with a little crook in the corner to pop into her mind. Darcy quickly pushes it away, not even sure why she’s thinking of a man she’s barely spoken to, even though, she realizes, the resemblance to Jack is similar, though that really shouldn’t be enough of a connection. 

There are some people that just stick in your mind, she reasons, though she still doesn’t feel entirely comfortable with the justification. After all, it’s not likely she’s going to run into this man again and, besides that, for all she knows, he could have already been killed on the war front. 

A heavy sadness settles in her chest at the thought of him fallen, that laughter and determination gone, and she forces herself into happier thoughts. She takes a deep breath, pushing away the lingering images of Bucky Barnes from her mind, and focuses instead on her dancing partner who, for some reason, seems a little less handsome and interesting than he did just a few minutes ago.

Though Jack is entertaining, and she likes talking with him, there’s no tingle of anticipation when he rests his hand on her waist to lead her around the floor. There’s no lingering feeling of want after he pulls away from pressing close against her in the crowded room. She’s not particularly bothered or annoyed by the lack of desire. It simply is what it is. 

She has Jack lead her around the floor a few more times before she decides to call it a night, having successfully fulfilled Jo’s mission. She had fun and remembered that there’s more than just getting to the next phase of her life. With a thank you for the dance, she takes her leave and starts searching the floor for Jo to let her know she’s going back to base.

It doesn’t take long to spot the other woman, her green dress practically acting as a beacon in the smoky light. From the way Jo is pressed up against her soldier, Darcy wonders if she might be making the walk back to base by herself tonight. It’s not something she’s talked about with Jo, and Darcy realizes that things are a little different now, but they didn’t distribute condoms out to the enlisted for fun and giggles. 

Darcy hesitates on the edge of the dance floor, wondering if she should interrupt the moment when the song ends. Jo pulls apart from the man and Darcy sees her chance as the band goes on break. Moving through the crowd with ease, she comes up by Jo’s elbow, wicked and knowing grin already spread across her lips. 

“Having fun?” she leans in to whisper to the other woman. She doesn’t wait for an answer as she pulls back, looking from the man, who only has eyes for Jo at this point, then back at her friend. 

Darcy tips her head towards the door. “I’m going to head out, but I’ll catch up with you later?” She leaves it open-ended, in case Jo does want to have other plans for the night. 

Instead of a response, Jo merely stands up on her toes, brushing her lips softly against the man’s cheek. 

“I’m going to take off,” she informs the man when she pulls back. She loops her arm through Darcy’s and Darcy can’t help but feel guilty when she sees the flash of disappointment pass over the man’s face.

When he asks Jo if he she’ll be back tomorrow night, she offers an apologetic expression. 

“Probably not,” she tells him. “Gotta keep up with the studies.” The man nods and Jo turns away, dragging Darcy off the dance floor and out the door.

“Don’t let me interrupt your fun,” Darcy protests on the way out. They stop a few times to wave to the other girls, letting them know they’re leaving. Darcy is dragging her heels the entire time, just in case Jo changes her mind.

“I can find my own way back to base, just so you know,” Darcy tells her as they grab their coats at the check and walk out the door. “In case you want to go back. Make new friends.” She raises her eyebrows, letting the implication sink in.

“With him?” Jo asks, not even glancing back as they start walking down the street. “He’s just a soldier looking to get in one last quick tumble before he ships out.”

Darcy isn’t quite sure how to tell Jo that hasn’t stopped her, but Darcy’s history of one-night stands isn’t what’s up for debate and scrutiny at this point in time. 

“And?” she asks instead, figuring that’s the safest way to figure out where Jo is going with this.

“And he’s fun, sure. But there’s no depth,” Jo explains. “While I don’t mind getting some of my own, I do it on my own terms. Who knows,” she adds with a smirk, “maybe when I’m about to ship out, I’ll do the same thing.”

“Fair enough,” Darcy agrees with a laugh. Part of her wants to dig deeper, to get the gossip, but she also knows that really isn’t her place. For as much as she’s already come to know this woman in a few short months, there’s still so much she feels like she doesn’t have the right to know. Instead, they make their walk back to base, arm in arm on a brisk fall evening.

***

Her graduation takes place on a cool December day. She sits in the row of graduates, twenty-two of the original thirty that were accepted, in the otherwise empty dinner hall. It’s a high graduation rate, at least, that’s what she’s told. The ceremony is quick with none of the pomp and circumstance she’s come to expect from this sort of thing, but she’s strangely alright with that. Her college graduation took well over four hours and, somehow, feels less significant than this one. At the end of her college ceremony, she simply felt lost and at ends, unsure of what came next. Especially since, at that point in time, Jane, who Darcy had been thinking of interning with again until she found a real job, was off who knows where because Darcy never received any response back from her calls and emails.

Now, though, at the end of this ceremony as she shakes hands and congratulates her fellow pilots, she feels a sense of belonging. Like she’s joining something greater. She knows what comes next, what she’s supposed to be doing, and there’s a sense of fulfillment, of reassurance, in that knowledge. There’s a bit of fear, too, but she embraces it. It makes her feel alive. Like she still has things to lose. Things to conquer.

After packing up her few belongings, Darcy reports alongside Jo for duty to receive their first assignment. As she rips open her orders, there’s a tingling of anticipation racing down her spine. Finally, she feels, finally she’s doing something, like she’s making forward progress in her plans to get back home. While she’s actually enjoying her time here now, she still desperately wants to be back home. 

She pulls out the slip of paper from the envelope, quickly reading over the mangled typewriter print.

“England,” she tells Jo, who is devouring the information on her own orders paperwork. “I’m to help take a new shipment of planes over for dispersement. Flying Fortress bombers,” she says with a hint of excitement. They never really got to work with the bombers in training and she has to admit that she thinks they look amazing. She can’t wait to get her hands on it.

“Me, too,” Jo informs her with a giddy grin. “Race you across the ocean. Loser buys the best English beer we can find.”

Darcy sticks out her hand. “Deal.”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looong overdue update, but I'm making this story my tentative NaNoWriMo project so, hopefully, can get some more chapters going. Also, the timeline of events was shifted around so much for this and the three upcoming sections, along with being written, rewritten, and then written a third time. It was a little ridiculous. But, though it took awhile, I'm really happy with the timeline and how things are stacking up now, after moving a few things around.
> 
> Thanks, guys, for reading and I hope you enjoy!

With assignments dispersed and graduating class dismissed, Darcy returns to her housing to pack. She sorts and folds her belongings before trying to squeeze them in the limited space of her second-hand luggage. Unlike when she first packed the old trunk, Darcy takes some amount of care to organize. She's managed to come into possession of a few more items during her time in Texas, all courtesy of Jo.

While packing, she listens to the chatter of the bunks around her. She hears a few of the various assignments as they're bandied around, all stateside. As more assignment locations come out, Darcy learns that there are only a few members of their class assigned to the war front. Instead, it seems the large majority of her class ends up stationed stateside.

One of the women, a redhead with curls that are hard to tame and kept under a kerchief most of the time, grumbles they'll be stuck the entire war testing new airplanes off the assembly line. Darcy doesn’t say anything, doesn’t feel like she can when she’s getting the better end of the deal. Wouldn’t be right to rub it in when there’s nothing she can do about it.

“We’ll spend our entire day in the sky, sure,” the redhead continues as she shuts her case with a final click of the lock. “But we’ll be spending just as much time writing down every single problem, half of which will ignored. If not all of them.”

“You know they need the feedback,” counters another woman, a blond who went out dancing with their group a couple of times. “Besides, it won’t be all test flights. We’ll get to take the planes for delivery, too, to the ports. That’s something.”

A few of the women nod along, begrudging, while others outright scoff.

“Least they let some of us go over, though it ain’t much,” the redhead mutters with a jerk of her head at Darcy and Jo. Both of the women have kept silent about their assignments, once they realized they were in the minority. Their silence must speak volumes, though, since the entire room seems to know they aren't staying in the states.

The woman lights her cigarette, taking a drag and exhaling the smoke before she speaks. Her voice is much louder and brash, projected over the group. “Do a good enough job so they’ll send for the rest of us, will ya?”

“They’ll be banging down your door by the end of the week,” Jo promises with a laugh to dispel the cocky air to her words. “Send you over with the next shipment of planes for delivery. Fresh American pilots for the European theater.”

“Better by plane than having to go by boat like the puddle jumpers that can’t make the cross-Atlantic trip,” Darcy adds. While water has never bothered her much, even after her crash landing in the river, she can’t say a couples weeks at sea on a Navy vessel is high on her list of fun times.

Chatter continues as they finish packing. Though there really isn't much known about all the intricacies, the general overview for those staying stateside is routine. For the most part, the women will have to take the planes as they come off the assembly line up in the air, putting them through the paces to spot problems. The pilots will then deliver the planes around the country as needed, whether for local transport or to sent to Europe. From there, the planes will fly to the war front with American pilots newly stationed in the European theater. Smaller planes, the ones that a cross-Atlantic journey would be pushing their limits, send on ship.

On the whole, it sounds safe, but rather monotonous and boring. There's no thrill to scratch the restless itch that's taken up residence under Darcy's skin. Nothing to satisfy the thrill-seeking craving, the need for adventure. She might not have realized it at the time, but having grown up in an environment such as Xavier's school, she's not cut out for complacent and normal. She's lived too long in a world where a person can run through walls or start a fire with their brain or turn any object into a makeshift popsicle. 

Darcy has lived too long in what others would thing of as the bizarre to ever enjoy 'normal.'

It's why, after Thor, she stayed close to the X-Men; it's why she stayed in their world, her world. She can see that, now, with the perspective and distance afforded to her. Darcy could have been a lawyer, yes, but the court room and mental battles would have only satisfied her for so long. Weekend flights would have helped to fill the gap, but even those, though, would have become unfulfilling. 

They would have become routine and monotonous. And dull.

In return, she would have grown to resent something that filled her with pure happiness. She can do the metaphorical mental battles behind the scenes, but, deep down, she craves being on the front lines. Some part of her needs it, needs to be the tip of the spear rather than the one wielding the weapon.

She's grateful, so ridiculously grateful, that she's managed to be one of the few snagging a coveted war front spot. Though Darcy knew, vaguely, when she signed up that it would be a possibility to stay stateside, it was a thought she pushed to the back of her mind.

She hadn't fully realized there would be such a high probability of that particular scenario until now. 

It was just one of the many things that Darcy is realizing the recruiter glossed over until she signed away on the dotted line. Either way, Darcy can't help but send another silent thanks that luck is, once again, still on her side. She really hopes Jo isn't going to be right and that her luck is going to run out on her right when she needs it the most.

Once packed, Darcy and Jo meet with their commander at base ops, bags in hand.

"Change in plans," they're told with a mess of papers shoved into their hands. Darcy immediately drops her bag to have both hands free, paging through the stack. She's silently begging that they aren't going to stay in the states. 

Her stomach sinks and there's a tightening in her chest as she feels the opportunity to fight slipping through her fingers. She can already feel the palpable loss of potential, her world growing smaller and dimmed by lack of opportunity. Just as tangible is the loss of whatever little, almost impossible, chance of finding Logan on the war front.

It was a long shot, but it was her one shot of a familiar face, of a lifeline to her former existence.

"The Flying Fortress shipment we were going to send you out on ended up having to do an early delivery. We're bumping you back a week," the commander continues, unaware of Darcy's panic. The tension in her body, so rapidly built, releases in a breath of relief. Jo shoots her a look, relief written in every line of her face.

"Are we staying here for the week?" Darcy asks. It wouldn't be the worst thing, though she's worried she might go stir crazy with the wait and nothing to do.

The commander shakes his head with a grin. "If you were hoping for a week of R&R, you're going to be sorely disappointed. You're going to spend the week at Orchard Place, testing their C-54s."

"Illinois?" Jo confirms with a look down at their paperwork. 

"Yep. Wheel's up in the hour," the commander confirms. "Since your bags are already packed, might as well meet the plane in hanger one. See if we can get you out faster."

Two other women join them for the flight with the same modified orders, both expressing relief over the fact that they still will get to go to the war front. It's a relief they can say in their small group, away from the women who are stuck in the states.

The journey on the small plane from Texas to Illinois is a short one. Tension manages to build deep in Darcy's gut the entire way, though. Part of it is the fact that they're actually doing this, they're on their own, like a baby bird pushed out of the nest. And part of it is that she still keeps expecting the bottom to drop out, that they'll end up having to stay in Illinois. That she'll never make it to the war front. 

It's a thought that leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

"Hey," Jo says with a nudge as they get off the plane. "Just a week, alright? We can handle this for a week. Then we'll be on our way. You'll see."

"Hope you're right, Moynihan," Darcy replies.

Jo shrugs, nonchalantly. "Usually am, aren't I?"

Darcy rolls her eyes, but she feels better with the banter, which she's pretty sure was Jo's goal. "Modest, too."

"Overrated trait," Jo counters. "C'mon. Let's see if we can manage to get in the air yet today. I'm itching to get my hands on a shiny new plane."

"You'll have to bring it back in one piece," Darcy teases. "So you can't dirty her up too much."

"Oh, we can still have fun. Don't you worry."

Jo's right and, once they report to command and drop off their bags at temporary housing, they're immediately put to work.

Each of the four women takes a C-54 transport plane, exactly like the one they're ride across the ocean later in the week, straight off the assembly line. It's the only plane manufactured at this plant. Four engines, capable of long range transport. Useful, practical. 

And Darcy feels like she's flying a bus the moment she gets behind the stick. Especially compared to the light and quick biplanes she had for the majority of her training.

When they're in the air, despite the fact that Darcy's flying a whale, she does her best to put the plane through it's paces. The mechanics on the ground sent up a checklist for the pilots to go through, mostly consisting of generic maneuvers. 

Thankfully, they're given a few requests, some turns and hard banks, to spice things up. Manuevers the plane would only have to complete in the most extreme and dire of circumstances. Basically, ones that, if Darcy had passengers in the back, would leave over half of them with their faces green and tucked.

Once they're a few miles from the airfield, Darcy calls out over the radio. 

"Ready to get a little dirty, Moynihan? I'm feeling bored," she challenges.

"Just try to keep up, Lewis," Jo radios back. The other two women call out, eager to join in. Seems like everyone has a restless anticipation stirring in their blood, Darcy realizes. 

Jo is the first to go; because of the size of the plane, they're limited in what they can do. Only a few fighter plane tactics can are even modifiable for the different thrust-to-weight ratio, wing loading, and the corner speed of the C-54. 

They burn through those maneuvers right away.

The other two women hang back after the first few rounds, but continue to egg Jo and Darcy on over the radio. Darcy can't help the grin from spreading wide, gleeful and all-encompassing, at the feeling of camaraderie. Ahead, there are miles and miles of empty space to push the planes to their limit. It’s a heady feeling, to know that not only are you allowed to push a plane to the brink of it’s abilities and back, but that it’s your job to do so.

Darcy hangs back and watches as Jo just barely pulls off lag roll, bringing the plane back into formation with the other three with ease. It's a maneuver performed by rolling up and away from the turn, then pulling back on the stick, bringing the plane back into the turn. It's a nice trick used to increase distance between air craft.

She can practically see the smug grin on Jo’s face as the other woman calls on the radio. “Let’s see it, Lewis. Because I’m pretty sure I just won.”  
“Getting too cocky, Moynihan,” Darcy replies, her tone light and cheery. She pushes the plane up to gain the necessary altitude. 

Once at the right height, Darcy double-checks her gauges. With everything reading good, she puts the plane into a turn, dipping the nose low. The maneuver is a defensive spiral, usually a last-ditch option in aerial combat, which feels fitting here. It's one she knows she could pull off with the Blackbird, but is questionable with this plane. She’s feeling daring, though, high on adrenaline and challenge. 

“Watch and learn,” she crows over the radio.

The plane dips into a spiral dive, using gravity to supply the energy. In combat, there would be a plane on her tail, trying to lock on to a target. The goal is to spin, looping in and out with the enemy plane, until dangerously close to the ground.

When Scott taught her the spin, they would push each other, one acting as the attacker, one as the defender, into getting as close to the ground as possible without crashing. 

She remembers, vividly, the first time she saw the ground racing towards her, Scott's voice in her ear, telling her the exact moment to pull up. The tight, clenching feeling of inevitable doom in her chest, in her entire body, wrapped together with pure exhilaration and adrenaline. 

Even that first time, she wanted to push further. Wanted to keep toeing that line between success and catastrophe, hanging on the edge and about to tip over. Darcy craved more, pushing the plane a little further each time she did the spin dive with the Blackbird.

Adding to the anticipation and thrill is the fact that, if the attempt is unsuccessful in losing the attacker, the other end goal is to get so close to the ground, you force your attacker to crash.

The ground is rapidly approaching and the gages start going a little haywire on the dash. There's a knocking noise coming from the left wing that has her worried, but not enough to stop. Maybe it's because Darcy's stubborn and foolhardy, but she knows she can do this. 

She can hear Jo yelling at her on the radio.

"Pull up, you stubborn fool!"

"Almost there," Darcy mutters to herself, not bothering to engage the radio. She has to tighten her grip on the stick, the force threatening to break her grasp. "C'mon, sweetheart, you got this," she tells the plane.

With meters to spare, barely the height of a tree, Darcy pulls out of the spin with a loud whoosh of air. She can't help the loud crow of joy as she sends the plane back in the air, the endorphins flooding her body in a rush that she has yet to find a match out of the sky.

“What the hell was that?” Jo swears at her over the mic. “You grandstanding fool! You’ve been holding back. I can’t believe you,” the other woman continues before her voice turns demanding. “You’re teaching that to me when we get back.”

"Well, if you think you can handle it, I suppose I can try," Darcy agrees. She hears Jo's responding scoff over the radio.

Now that the game is over, the group moves the planes once again back into formation. The four of them continue through the few items still on checklist, marking off each listed item and making a few comments. It’s a short amount of time later when they take the planes back down to the ground, done with the flight test by mid-morning.

*

Once on the ground, the women hand off the checklists to the waiting mechanics, along with any observations they made during the flight. Darcy lets her crew know about the random knocking noise she first heard during the spin. Even after she leveled out the plane, the knocking kept up the rest of the flight.

Despite the obvious disinterest by her mechanic, Darcy tries to be as detailed as possible. She, along with the other pilots, had an overview of mechanics during training to the point that Darcy can name every valve and cylinder in the motor. A pilot never knew when they would have to do a last minute repair far from base and the knowledge is good to have. This problem, though, is far out of her wheelhouse. It's one in need of a permanent fix, rather than the stop gap Darcy or another pilot would attempt in the field to get a plane out of danger.

The rest of the week goes by in spurts of fast and slow. Each day, the four women get sent up with a new batch of planes to test and put through the paces. But, by the afternoon, they’re left with little to do since the production line can only put out so many planes per day. Half the time, Darcy and Jo will split off, helping where they can either in the mechanic’s bay or, at times, on the production line. It keeps their hands occupied, giving them something to do while they cool their heels waiting for their planes to be ready to fly to New York.

By the end of the week, the four planes the women tested initially on their arrival are ready for sign off on the repairs. Bright and early on Friday morning, they sit on the tarmac, metal glinting under the sunny sky, ready and waiting for delivery. The women conduct one last check flight to make sure any and all remaining issues initially reported ended up fixed. Darcy is happy to find the knocking she noticed earlier in the week is gone. When she checks in with the mechanics on the ground after the flight, they assure her they located the problem and it should be good to go.

The test flight is much shorter this time and, soon, they’re back on the ground. The planes refuel while the women pack. Darcy gathers up her belongings, shoving them all in her flight duffel to take with her to New York. They’re going to have a brief stop there to deliver the planes, then board a transport to finally fly to London.

Though they were only in residence for a week, it was long enough for her belongings to find new homes around the small room she shares with Jo. As Darcy is gathering up the mess, she gives a more critical eye to each belonging before packing it. She ends up with a small pile of items that, upon inspection, really don’t need to make the trip with her and can be left for someone else to use. 

Most of her clothing consists of uniforms, including her leathers to wear for cold weather and open cockpit flying. She only takes a few civilian clothes with her, but includes the dress Jo gifted to her back in Texas. The one that managed to put stars in the eyes of a few GIs when they went dancing. Darcy pulls out the dress, holding it up in front of her with a frown. She doesn’t know how much use of it she’ll manage to get in London, in the middle of the war. It seems like a waste, both of the dress and of valuable space in her pack.

"I should just leave this behind," Darcy laments, holding up the dress. "See if someone else can get some use out of it."

"Don't you dare," Jo warns her. "That dress was practically made for you. You can't leave it behind. Besides, it'd just be plain ungrateful. Not to me," she hastens to add when Darcy opens her mouth to apologize for basically tossing aside Jo's gift.

"I meant that when you find a dress that manages to make not just one man speechless, but an entire damn dance hall, you don't give it up," Jo clarifies. 

"And when am I going to wear the dress?" Darcy asks, even as she tucks the garment into her bag. "Maybe a nice transport flight over continental Europe? On a scouting mission?"

Jo shrugs. "We'll manage to find someplace, at least for one night, that we'll do drinks and dancing. We're in London, right? We'll find a way."

"Already planning your escape from base before you even step foot on it?" Darcy teases.

"Might as well," Jo replies. "Doubt we're going to be the only ones. Besides, if there's anything that can try to make the war a little more palatable, to make us forget what we're about to see, even if for a little while, it's going to be liquor and the possibility of a little company."

Darcy can't disagree.

*

The flight from Illinois to New York is mostly uneventful, until Darcy enters the last hour. The same knocking noise she had heard earlier in the week is back, louder and more frequent than it was before. She radios to let the others know about the issue.

“You want to take it down or are you good to keep going?” Jo radios back.

“It’ll keep for now,” Darcy replies. “Let’s keep going, the crew in New York can take care of it. Besides, we have a transport to catch. I’m not spending another week, or, god forbid, longer, as a test pilot.”

The head mechanic for the crew, however, merely glances at the information clipboard Darcy hands off when they land. He gives a disinterested hum when he takes it from her grasp, and tosses it aside on a stack of dirty grease stained rags. Wrinkling her nose, Darcy reaches over, picks up the clipboard, and holds it outstretched to the man once more. 

“You gotta get this checked out,” she informs the man, tapping the paper in the general area where she wrote out the issue in detail.

“Yeah, sure, we’ll get to it when we get to it, honey,” he brushes her off. He doesn’t take the clipboard, instead jerking his head to the stack of rags once again, indicating where she can put the board. With the unspoken implication that she’ll leave immediately after, of course, laden in the subtext.

Darcy’s eyes narrow and her lips purse in annoyance.

“Hey,” she barks, her voice raised, irritation coming through in the order. The man finally looks up, a mixture of surprise and aggravation written in the lines. His eyebrows fly up towards his hairline. 

“Listen,” he starts to say, his tone combative. He leans forward, scowl taking over his expression. Darcy holds her hands up, tipping her head and doing her best to act contrite. 

“I’m not trying to create a problem,” she tells him. Her voice is calm, level. “And that probably wasn’t the best way to get your attention. That’s on me,” she adds, hands pointed towards her chest before she raises them again in the position that feels like surrender.

“But this is important. I told them about it in Illinois and they said it was fixed. It isn’t,” she explains, tone more patient than she feels. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking this plane across the Atlantic by myself, let alone full of soldiers. I wouldn’t expect another pilot to do so, either. Can you check it out?”

The man purses his lips, tension still tight in the corners of his mouth and around his eyes, then nods. 

“We’ll take care of it,” he tells her, with a glance over her shoulder. 

Darcy looks back to see senior brass standing there, arms crossed across his chest and a pinched look on his face. The mechanic takes the clipboard from her grasp, drawing her attention away from the brass. Darcy thanks him and walks back to where the senior brass is still standing, waiting.

“You wanna last, you’re going to have to cut out the hothead act,” the brass informs her as she approaches. “Most people aren’t going to give you the second chance for an impression after you bark at them.”

“Yes, sir,” Darcy replies. She’s biting her tongue, even as she can feel the resentment build. She’s watched worse interactions from male pilots to mechanics, with brass backing them up. Her one word call out was more of a wake-up call than a challenge. Not in the eyes of the man in front of her, though.

He gives her an assessing look and Darcy can’t help but be grateful she’s not under his command. He must feel the same, given the next words out of his mouth. “You might only be my problem for the next twenty-four hours, but if you cause an issue like that again, I’ll make sure you spend the entirety of this war sorting bolts and screws on an assembly line.”

“Yes, sir,” Darcy repeats. She waits until she’s dismissed and walks over to where Jo is standing off to the side, waiting for her.

“Look at you, playing nice with others,” Jo teases. “Thought you were going to try the bossy tactic and I was getting ready to jump in. You know you can’t play that card, not at our rank.” Jo didn’t add that being women, they’d still have less pull than a man at the same rank. Darcy was already learning that pretty fast on her own.

“So I’m told,” Darcy says bitterly. “I almost did. Thought better of it, though that guy doesn’t seem to agree with me,” Darcy admits, with a toss of her head towards the retreating brass. 

“I realized it wouldn’t get me anywhere to be sour with the mechanic. I just hate that nonsense, though,” she adds with a huff of frustration before shrugging. “But, realistically, I wouldn’t let another pilot take the plane. I don’t know what’s going on with it, I don’t know what the issue is. For all I know, it really could be nothing. But when the mechanics don’t know what it is, either, I’m going to put my foot down.”

Besides, in addition to her own discomfort, it was the way she was trained, by both Scott and the army. She can practically hear Scott nagging in the back of her mind about proper plane maintenance. No matter how it might come across, she feels justified in her adamant stance.

“As you should,” Jo tells her with a decisive nod as they board the C-54 bound for England. “We all have to trust the pilot before us and we have to trust the mechanics on the ground. Goes both ways, that we owe them the same. Just, be careful. I need you up in the sky with me, not stuck in an assembly line somewhere.”

“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll at least keep my mouth shut until we’re in England,” Darcy compromises.

Jo rolls her eyes. “Not reassuring. At all.”

“Oh, don’t worry. It wasn’t meant to be,” Darcy replies with a grin.

*

Just like the weather was different from Texas to Illinois, the conditions in England are an entirely different animal. They managed to leave New York on a cross Atlantic transport before a blizzard blows in, one of the last flights cleared before the runway was closed.

Once on the land in England, Darcy steps off the transport, flight bag in one hand, suitcase in the other, and is immediately assaulted by little spears of rain pelleting her face. She ducks her head, tucking her face into the upturned collar of her coat, as she hurries to the closest building. A full body shudder runs down her spine once she makes it into the warmth of the control tower, setting off a shivering that she can’t seem to stop.

Just during the short jog, she managed to get soaked to the bone just as well as she would if she jumped in the shower with her clothes on. There’s a bite to the air that makes the drenched clothes not only stick, but chill her in a way the heat of the building is having trouble penetrating.

“Well, that woke me up,” Darcy comments to Jo once they make it inside. She sets her flight back and suitcase down and sloughs as much of the water as possible off her coat with her free hands, Jo doing the same next to her. They get pinched looks from people passing by, the two heathen Americans shaking off like dogs in the entryway. 

When they’re as dry as they’re going to get, which isn’t much, but at least they’re no longer dripping water in their wake, Jo and Darcy check in with command. The officer takes one look at their appearance and sends them off to housing, with orders to report for duty the next morning at 0800 hours.

Darcy glances at the clock on the wall behind the officer, completely out of tune with the day due to the several hour flight and the time change. She managed to catch some sleep on the flight over, as much as she could on a hard bench with a jump strap holding her in. There’s still a groggy feeling in her movements, and her brain is definitely sluggish, so the twenty-four hour break before she has to hold any sort of responsibility in her new post is a welcome respite.

They drop off their belongings at what is going to be their housing for this assignment. It’s yet another nondescript building, concrete and bland, almost as if they took the barracks from Texas and transported the building here. There are multiple buildings for barracks, only one of which is designated for women. Another building sits a little apart from their cluster and Darcy is informed during the quick rattled off intro from the harried clerk that building is the officers quarters. 

The clerk is quick to steer them in the right direction, once he takes care of their paperwork. Darcy gets the feeling it wasn’t so much expediency as getting them out of his office before the puddle beneath her feet and Jo’s feet expanded into potential flood territory.

A hot shower is first priority, finally chasing away the chill that’s taken up residence in Darcy’s bones since she disembarked from the plane. Once dressed, Darcy hangs her still dripping wet clothes on the heat pipes, along with Jo’s clothes that the other woman left in a pile on the floor. When she puts a hand against the pipes, there’s barely any heat to them, so Darcy’s a little doubtful about how fast and effective it’s going to be to get the clothes dry. 

“We’ll just use an iron on them if we need them,” Jo answers with a shrug when she comes back from her shower. “It’s a trick I’ve had to use once or twice. Not ideal, and lord, does is stink, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

“It’ll probably be a trick we have to use a lot,” Darcy observes. She lifts the damp cloth of her pants experimentally, finding the fabric still saturated. “I’m pretty sure nothing can dry with all this moisture and humidity constantly hanging in the air.”

“So we’ll make friends with the Brits and find out all their secrets to clothing,” Jo counters, gesturing around to the other empty beds in the room. There are some rumpled and unmade, some with clothing scattered across, and a few that are meticulously put together. That, combined with the lack of any personal items on the nightstand corresponding to the the bed, leads Darcy to believe there’s still a few beds unoccupied. Less than a quarter of the beds in their sixty bed unit are pristine.

“We’ve pretty much been turned over to their command to do with what they will,” Darcy adds. “Might as well gain something out of it.” 

It was one of the things that came up during their briefing that had surprised Darcy, though, really, it probably shouldn’t have. Since, for the most part, the US didn’t have much of a female pilot presence on the front, they basically turned over the few pilots stationed in England to the Brits. The Brits, in turn, bumped them in with their own female pilots. From Darcy’s understanding, at this point, that mostly means working in the communication tower. 

The level of discouragement and disgust she felt over hearing that assignment, well, there really aren’t any words.

Part of Darcy is wondering if she’s even going to be able to get her hands on a plane for the rest of the war, or if she’s doomed to be stuck in a tower, relaying coordinates and instructions to rookie pilots. It’s a thought that grates, to say the least.

“C’mon,” Darcy says suddenly. The room is stifling in it’s empty stillness and she has excess energy build up in her limbs from the long trip. She threads her arm through Jo’s, tugging the other woman with her. “I’m not sitting here all day, waiting until we can finally do something tomorrow.”

They bundle up as best they can though, thankfully, the rain seems to be slacking off now. An hour too late, Darcy thinks with a hint of annoyance, but there’s nothing to be done for it. Jo had the foresight to pack an umbrella so they both huddle under the brim as they walk, getting familiar with their new home. 

As they pass by the variety of planes, from transport to bomber to fighter, a nervous ball of energy forms in the pit of Darcy’s stomach. They’re here. They’re actually here, at the war front. It all suddenly seems real to her, that the war is knocking at their door and they’re about to answer. In America, it was a distant thought, one that you could push aside like the events happening in a book or a movie. But here, with air raid sirens towers dotting the horizon, planes sitting in various states of battered and broken, with telltale bullet holes piercing the side, the war is an ever-present fact.

Her grip tightens on Jo’s arm as they pass another set of fighter planes waiting for repairs. Sheet metal is being framed to cover the side, rivets drilled in place to get the plane through another series of dogfights. Seeing the damage to the plane, Darcy can’t help but wonder at the state of it’s pilot. The damage is extensive to the metal and she isn’t sure she wants to know what it would have done to flesh and bone. What it could do to Jo. 

Darcy worries about herself, she’d be a fool not to, but she worries more about the other woman, a woman just as foolhardy but much more vulnerable, much more human. A woman without a mutation to wrap around herself as a protective cloak.

“It just hit me how real this is,” Darcy confesses, standing there, eyes not leaving the holes still visible on the plane. “And how foolish we might be.”

Jo gives her a grin. “You aren’t turning scared on me, are you?”

“No,” Darcy protests. “It’s just…” she trails off, uncertain. 

Jo doesn’t speak, simply waiting patiently for Darcy to process her thoughts into words. They manage to walk the distance from the southwest/northeast runway to the first set of blister hangers before Darcy can properly form the words.

“I held the entire idea at a distance,” Darcy starts. “It wasn’t about a war, about people dying. It was about flying. That’s the only part I focused on.” 

Lies, she knows as soon as she says the words. She was focused on survival, on trying to find the one sole connection possible to her future, on escaping the claustrophobic feel of being absolutely trapped, with no control over her future or even her present. The soup kitchen had been a blessing, definitely, but waking up each day and going through the same monotony, waiting for something to change or give, had slowly been killing her.

Darcy pushes aside the thoughts, though, because that’s not anything she needs to get into with Jo. “Point is, now that we’re here, it makes me realize how foolish, and just how damn selfish, it was to think that was the only part that mattered.”

“You’re scared. Not just about what you’re doing, but what you’re going to see. Because we’re going to see humanity at their worst and that’s the kind of thing you can’t prepare yourself for, no matter how much training you go through. And, ultimately, you’re worried you won’t make it home. Or, if you do, it’s not gonna be home anymore,” Jo states succinctly. 

Though Darcy’s idea of home is entirely different from what Jo assumes, she’s still partially correct in her assumption. 

Jo continues, her tone soft, understanding, but unwavering and true. “Darling, we’re all worried about that. Every single person. It’d be stupid not to have that thought run through your mind. That can’t control your actions, though.”

“More worried about you,” Darcy admits. “I can take care of myself.”

Jo turns to look at her, eyebrow arched. “And I can’t?”

“Wouldn’t dare dream of making that accusation,” Darcy assures the other woman. She rocks back on her heels, tongue in cheek as Jo simply glowers. Darcy’s expression softens. “But I worry anyway.”

Jo huffs a breath of amusement, but says nothing as they continue walking. Once they’re back at the barracks, having completed the circuit around base, Jo pauses. Darcy is about to open the door when feels a tug on her arm. 

“I worry about you, too,” Jo informs her when Darcy turns around. Her voice is tight with concern, with unsaid fears. She swallows harshly as she continues. “So you stay alive. And I’ll do the same.”

A small smile forms on Darcy’s face. “Deal.”

Later that night, Darcy rolls over in bed to see Jo still awake. The other woman is sitting at one of the desks in the corner of the room, three beds down from where Darcy is trying, and failing to sleep. The lamp is on, a dim light barely making a dent in the darkness. It must be enough for Jo, though, because the other woman is bent over, furiously scribbling on a piece of paper.

“What are you doing?” Darcy mumbles. She rubs her eyes, trying to clear the sleep out of them well enough to see, but everything is still the slightly blurry of sleepy eyes. She can see well enough, though, to notice Jo’s back straighten, as if caught doing something wrong.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jo dismisses. “Couldn’t sleep, figured I’d get some correspondence taken care of rather than just toss and turn. Go back to bed.”

Darcy doesn’t push, too tired to argue. Instead, she rolls back over and pulls the covers up tight to her chin. She’s back asleep within minutes to the soft scrape of Jo’s pen against the paper.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to make an author note about this last time, but I was honestly half-asleep when I posted. 
> 
> While there's definitely been research done on WWII for this fic, this story is definitely, totally, sooo not even historically compliant. And that's putting aside the mutants and the genetically engineered super soldiers. So please don't be offended if this is an area of knowledge for you and this story doesn't hold up to historical basis because I can already tell you we blew up the popsicle stand a long time ago. But, I also think that, if you can have a universe with mutants and genetically engineered super soldiers, then you can have a universe where female America pilots were allowed to serve on the front, rather than being solely stationed in the United States. And I think you can have a few liberties taken for the sake of the story, right?
> 
> Also, god, I'm turning into such a liar. I promised, I know I promised to someone or told someone, that Bucky would be in this chapter. Then this chapter ended up edging near the 10-12k mark and that was just a little ridiculous. So, now, the chapter is going to be split up and this is the first part. I would swear that Bucky interaction is in the next one, but good grief, I don't want to be a liar again.
> 
> Also, definitely not beta read, mostly because I'm not going to ask some poor soul to read through 8k for spelling and grammar. That seems mean.

About a month into her deployment in England, Darcy is fit to be tied over the state of her hair. During her time in New York, she grew out her hair to past her shoulders, almost to the middle of her back. Which was a great style for the time, especially since she has a nice little wave that she’s finally learned how to use to her benefit rather than just bemoaning the amount of frizz. In this time period, though, and especially in these conditions, the length is completely impractical and ridiculous to try to style. 

Darcy watches her reflection in the mirror as she picks up a strand, still wet from her shower. She fingers the ends, split, of course, and wrinkles her nose. Enough is enough.

“Moynihan, what’s your morning look like?” Darcy calls out over her shoulder to the woman sitting on her bed, reading.

Jo doesn’t look up from her page. “Empty and boring. Probably the rest of this book. For the third time. Don’t have a shift at the comm tower ‘til this afternoon.”

“How handy are you with a pair of shears?” Darcy asks. She hasn’t turned around, but can see Jo sit to attention in the mirror, dropping the book and swinging her legs over the side of her bed.

“Are you finally going to give in and chop off that ridiculous mop you’ve been carrying around?”

“Depends on how handy you are,” Darcy hedges. “I don’t want to look like a shaved poodle.”

“I really appreciate the amount of faith you’re putting in my abilities,” Jo replies dryly. She starts rooting under her bed, knocking aside cases until she gives a soft noise of victory that Darcy assumes means she’s found her goal. Sure enough, Jo pulls out a small leather case, one that looks similar to the cosmetics bag Darcy used to have once upon a time. Jo waves the pair of scissors she retrieves from the case, tossing the bag on the bed as she rises.

“I’m a fair hand,” Jo informs her. “Least enough to get the cut decent. We can visit the dresser on our next day pass to get it cleaned up, but proper styling should take care of it until then.”

“Styling is why I want the whole mess gone,” Darcy informs her. “With shower allotment going down, where water is becoming a privilege and not a regular occurrence, I’m running out of ideas to keep this whole thing from looking limp and greasy. Putting more product in it to cover up a bad haircut isn’t going to help.”

Jo scoffs. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? Don’t you think the rest of us have figured out a trick or two and could share them? Gotta be less stubborn,” Jo informs her with a tug to Darcy’s hair, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make her point. “Learn to ask for help every once in awhile.”

“Asking for it now, aren’t I?” Darcy retorts. In the mirror, Darcy can see the other woman roll her eyes even as she starts brushing out Darcy’s hair and pinning up half of it to get it out of her way. Jo is efficient, quickly trimming up the split ends. With Darcy’s confirmation, she chops to locks to a much more manageable, and much more in style with the times, shoulder length do. 

“There,” Jo pronounces with a flourish. She manages to produce a smaller mirror, holding it up in the back so Darcy can look at the reflection through the mirror in front of her to check the work. “Think it’ll work?”

“Yeah,” Darcy says, her fingers reaching up to touch the much shorter hair. “Think it’ll be swell. Now I just need to learn how to style it.” 

It’s another sign of the passing time that the lingo of the decade, though initially stilted and gimmicky on her tongue, almost feels natural at this point, Darcy thinks with a small smile.

“We’ll rag roll it tonight,” Jo tells her. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch on in no time. You have enough natural curl that it’ll work slick.”

It takes a few tries, and some tips from the other girls, but Darcy manages to get the hang of the rags and curls by the end of the week. Jo teaches her a few of the more intricate up-dos to put into use when the shower allotments take their toll. The pin-up styles do a lot to cover the few days without a shower. 

And, when that isn’t enough, Darcy has amassed a nice collection of head scarves and bandanas. The head scarf trend is definitely a style she can get behind, 100%. She always keeps one with her, tucked in her pants pocket or in her flight bag, for those times when she can’t be bothered to even attempt messing around with pinning up her hair to cover the greasy roots.

During her time on the base, wandering around in the empty hours, Darcy has managed to find a gym with a few pieces of basic exercise equipment and some weights. It seems to be more of a storage room than anything, but it gives Darcy an idea. 

Though she’s initially reluctant, more just dragging her feet than anything, there’s a part of her that knows she needs to keep up her regimen that was started during flight training. Not only that, she needs to work on her strength, not just keeping it, but building it, and pushing her abilities. 

It’s not just the fact that she’s in a war; it’s the fact that she’s on her own in an unfamiliar time and she doesn’t know what she’s going to end up going up against. Her life up to this point, with the whole mutant thing, then the whole New Mexico and ‘hey, Norse Gods are totally real thing,’ then the ‘oh, by the way, aliens are real, too, and they kind of hate your world,’ is a perfect example of the unexpected randomly occurring and occurring often.

Darcy needs to have every possible resource at her disposal and she’s been short-changing herself by ignoring her mutant abilities. She needs to start learning the limitations of her mutation, if there are any. Darcy never did as much work with her mutation as some of the other students, taking for granted that ‘magical healing power that activates on it’s own’ was pretty much self-explanatory. 

Besides, what she does know isn’t so much about her mutation, but more about Wolverine’s mutation, who has definitely done his best to test the limits. Which, while some of it can be extrapolated and applied to her own, she has more limitations. The lack of a metal skeleton, for one. Logan from her time, Logan after he had adamantium bonded to his bones, is able to easily snap steel chains. Darcy knows her mutation will allow her to push her muscles beyond natural limits by healing as she strains them, but, and this is just her own theory, training and building up the strength will give her a higher base to start with, which means, hopefully, less muscle damage to heal. 

However, Wolverine has the advantage in that his adamantium coated skeleton can withstand weight that would damage her own. Granted, the damage would heal, but in a head to head battle, it’s a disadvantage since she can’t exactly call time out while her bones set themselves after being crushed. Just means she’s gonna have to come up with ways to compensate and not be a hard-headed fool like Wolverine, who’s own combat style is mostly made up of using his body like a battering ram.

Either way, she needs to start using her mutation to her advantage rather than just relying on it as back-up. She needs to start being more proactive, rather than reactive. It isn’t just strength, either, but also pushing her endurance as far as she can and as hard as she can. Darcy is going to take every weapon in her arsenal she can get at this point in time.

She doesn’t get to the gym as often as she would like. The coverage at the communication tower is spotty, with radio operators reassigned and men shifted closer to the war front. As a result, they’re pulling more and more of the female pilots stationed at the base to assist with coverage, especially during high traffic times. 

Darcy knows Morse code, which is a skill that’s in demand, and she’s also learned a fair bit about radio transmissions during her training with the WASPS. Not enough to substitute for the training a radio operator would receive, but enough to make a difference. It’s not just Darcy, though, that’s putting time in the tower. All pilots with knowledge of Morse code, including Jo, have to pull extra shifts in the comm tower. Of course, right as the radio operators are becoming more and more sparse, the number of planes taking off and landing at their base is increasing steadily by the day. 

For the most part, it isn’t too terrible of a job. It’s also a way to help her get more familiar with the maps and the physical landmarks for when she’s, eventually, hopefully, up in the air and needs a reference point. It’s better than cooling her heels in the barracks, waiting for the rare time when she finally gets a flight mission.

Today, however, is one of those frustrating days where it seems every pilot is a newbie. It doesn’t help that the weather is absolute crap and the newbies shouldn’t be out in it anyway. There are quite a number of pilots radioing in, complaining of limited visibility that’s resulted in them being uncertain of their position. 

Darcy has just finished her own radio call when the radio crackles with a call to the woman seated next to her. The woman, Elaine, has blond hair and a wicked sense of humor. She’s one of the regulars who goes out for drinks with Jo and Darcy on occasion. 

“Tyro to ground, position uncertain.” 

Tyro is the term given to a novice airman, and his inexperience is practically a stench coming through the radio. Elaine, cigarette now sitting in the ash tray next to her, lazy smoke curling in haphazard circles towards the ceiling, waits calmly for more information to come through. Her fingernail tapping against the counter is the only sign of her agitation, of her worry. There’s always a first time to lose a pilot, even in training. Especially since they had a pilot lost on a training accident just the previous week. The incident is still fresh in everyone’s mind.

The pilot, however, seems to think this is enough information for her to go off and doesn’t call out with further details. With a sigh, Elaine radios back.

“Ground to Tyro, do you see anything for landmarks?”

“Negative, ground,” the pilot answers back immediately. “The fog’s thicker than pea soup up here.”

Elaine rubs the spot between her eyebrows, a gesture born out of both frustration and exasperation. “Ground to Tyro, change your altitude and keep a weather eye out for the barrage balloons.”

Darcy really hopes the pilot has enough sense to be able to avoid the metal cables anchoring the large balloons laden with explosives. The balloons, which look like large blimps, are supposed to be a defensive measure for high risk targets, like airfields and harbors, against low flying dive bombers by forcing them to fly higher into the ideal range of the anti-aircraft guns. They can also be a hazard for their own novice pilots who let their nerves overcome their sense.

With a few modifications, Elaine is able to get the pilot set straight without any issue. He was only twenty miles away from their own backyard. The pilot’s embarrassment is palpable as he confirms that he’ll radio back on his final approach. 

Confirming the information, Elaine then reaches to make sure her radio isn’t communicating out. She checks a second, then a third time. Darcy raises an eyebrow and looks from Elaine to the switch, question hanging in the air unasked.

“They sent out a reminder memo last week,” Elaine explains, pausing for another puff on her cigarette. She purses her lips together in a way that makes smoking seem far more fashionable than it should be to exhale, pointing the smoke away from Darcy’s face. “Loose lips sink ships, keep the radio clear, all that fighting the war at home propaganda. Normally wouldn’t phase me a bit, but had a gal sitting next to me that got caught chattering about her pilot beau to another operator and was transmitting the whole time. Got read the riot act because she mentioned he was gonna be home after his scheduled bombing run.”

“Brass probably wasn’t too happy about her giving out information like when we have bombing runs scheduled and where,” Darcy remarks. She can only imagine the hot water that girl got into over that sort of slip, easy enough to do, though. Especially during the long hours in the communications tower. You learn to pass the time the best way you can and, unfortunately, gossip is always a go to entertainment, especially on an air base.

“Figured I better since I’m about ready to start knocking a pilot head against a dashboard or two if I get one more of these ‘help me, lost puppy’ calls,” Elaine says. Her irritation comes through in the rough tapping of the end of her cigarette against the ashtray to dispose of the stray ash.

“Don’t know why they let them up today to fly anyway if they aren’t cleared on instruments,” Darcy grumbles, her own fingers tapping an annoyed and quick rap against the table. “Just like I don’t know how you expect to actually fly a mission when you can’t even take a tour of your own island and not get lost. Do you not know how to use a compass and a map or did you just toss them out the cockpit once you got in the air with a shrug and the idea you’d never need them anyway?” 

She knows she’s ranting, but the entire morning has been a test of patience and hers is about done. It’s bad enough to have to try to guide in a lost fool who can’t tell you a damn thing to help them, but it’s even more frustrating when Darcy knows, knows with all her being, that she’s more talented than half these idiots being sent up. It grates, insult to injury, salt in the wound, whatever terminology a person can think of is pretty much applicable, to be left on the sidelines, cooling her heels. 

“Pilot, aren’t you?” Elaine asks with a grin. Darcy’s pretty sure the other woman knew that, since it was brought up one of the times they were out, but there had been quite a few drinks that night. Plus, Darcy’s sure she’s just one face in a million so it’s not any insult to her if someone can’t remember her life story.

“I’m remembering now,” Elaine continues, tapping a fingernail to her temple. “Course, even if I didn’t remember, and that would be fair if I didn’t since I’m sure we were pretty far into the rounds that night, your whole demeanor would tip me off. The bitterness of a newbie pilot fresh out of training being allowed time in the air while you’re stuck here is rolling off you in waves.”

“Got it in one,” Darcy answers. 

A new radio call coming over the line brings Darcy up short, though, before she can really get going on the unfairness of the situation. The information comes through and, despite initial reports of an air raid, they find out it’s one of their own. A P-51 fighter pilot relays that there’s a B-17 bomber trying to make it back to base, heavily damaged. Their radio is out and the only reason he has any information is because he’s flying next to them, communicating with hand signals.

As the reports come in from a pilot in a P-51 fighter, Darcy finds out that the tail is practically ripped off from the bomber and is flapping around in the air like a fish out of water. She doesn’t even know how the pilot is managing to keep the plane on course. The slightest turn in the wrong direction and the cross winds are going to rip the tail straight off.

The room immediately goes silent, everyone leaning forward on the edge of their seats as the fighter pilot asks for boats to be sent out to rescue crewmen, in case the plane goes down. Darcy listens to the Chief Radio Operator take over the call, asking why the crew hasn’t bailed out if return is highly problematic. 

The pilot doesn’t respond, prompting the Chief Radio Operator to repeat his question. Finally, there’s an answer.

“I had to confirm,” the pilot explains when he radios. “We only have hand signals to try and figure this out so we’re limited. He’s saying they don’t have parachutes. No way to bail out.”

It goes without saying that it means, come hell or high water, if they can’t bail out, the bomber pilot is damned determined to fly that wreck home. 

It’s a sentiment echoed by every pilot in the room, even if it’s a situation they’ve never been in. There is no other choice, especially when the lives of the crew are dependent on the pilot being able to land that plane. 

It’s only later, after the fact, that Darcy finds out the reason bailing out wasn’t an option was because the parachutes had been ripped apart to take the rope from each and tie them together. The tail gunner had been swept into the broken tail section when the bomb bay doors opened and couldn’t make it back to the main section of the plane on his own. 

The other crew men made a hasty rope to pull him back up to the main area of the plane, but when they tried to bring him forward, the tail became unstable and started flapping about so hard, it practically finished ripping off. The gunner, in a moment of foolhardy bravery, let go of the rope and inched his way back to his location, making the decision that his stabilizing weight was worth the risk of being torn off with the tail.

The tension in the room is high while they listen attentively to the radio transmissions from the pilot and from the ships dispatched to patrol the water. By now, there are multiple pilots in the air, having diverted from their own return flights to the airfield. The allied pilots stay with the bomber the entire trip across the Channel. The fighter pilot updates them constantly with coordinates and Darcy keeps her eyes on the map in front of her, marking off each position as it’s relayed. Silently, she calculates the time and distance left, holding out hope that the damaged plane can continue to limp back.

Two and a half tense hours later, the bomber finally lands at their airfield. Darcy watches, breath held tight, as the plane descends in an emergency landing, only letting out the breath when the plane touches down without issue on it’s landing gear.

Only after the crew disembarks, including the gunner stuck in the tail, does the rear section of the plane completely collapse.

*

Some of the girls, Darcy included, managed to get passes off of base earlier in the week for that night. The timing really couldn’t be better since Darcy’s in need of a good stiff drink after her day in communications. She doesn’t put on the dress that Jo had insisted so long ago that she pack, much to the other woman’s annoyance. Instead, she swaps out to a clean dress uniform and repins her hair back in a style that’s become second nature.

As she gives herself a quick once-over in the mirror, Darcy toys with reapplying the day old makeup, but decides to just call it good. Really, Jo should be happy with that. If Darcy had her choice, she’d be grabbing her 21st century sweatpants and ratty, completely worn out cotton Culver t-shirt, but both of those are lying on the floor of her bedroom apartment, seventy years away.

Their small group, five of the women, including Elaine, the woman from Darcy’s shift in the tower, are quick to grab a table slightly off to the side of the room. The pub is warm, both in temperature and in atmosphere. It’s a welcome respite as soon as she walks through the doors, even though the glass panes have been lost to a recent bombing spree and boarded over with planks. The rest of the pub is intact, though, all damage minor and purely cosmetic due to the distance from the landing sites.

There’s a piano in the corner and, after a few drinks, one of the soldiers propped up at the bar is convinced to give the keys a jingle. He takes request after request, some of them rather mangled as he makes up the tune, but it’s worth a laugh. Darcy watches as he jokes back and forth with his friends, his face flushed with humor and liquor.

The sound of a glass being set on the wood table in front of Darcy makes her jump. She turns back to see Jo sinking into the chair next to her, eyebrow raised. “Gonna go over and say hi or are you just gonna stare all night?”

“What?” Darcy asks, puzzled. Then realization dawns when Jo jerks her head in the direction of the piano player, waggling her eyebrows. 

“Oh,” Darcy says, shaking her head. “No, it’s not like that.”

Jo sighs. “Never is, is it?”

Darcy’s about to ask her what she means but is interrupted by the rest of their small group coming back with their refills. 

“So, what’s this hot news?” one of the women asks, Darcy forgets her name. She’s only been on base about a week, but has been quick to settle in with their group. War makes for fast friends.

Elaine leans forward. “Well, I didn’t see it myself, but word is Lorraine showed up for her shift with a quite the ring on her finger.”

It takes Darcy a moment to place the name. 

“The redhead that came in about the same time we did?” she confirms in a low voice to Jo, who nods. Darcy speaks up to the group. “I thought she just met the guy last month. Didn’t she?”

Elaine gives a laugh as she settles back into her chair. “Course she did. And she’s only talked to him in person twice, one of which was when he got down to propose. They’ve spent most of the time talking by post. Which, with the way that’s running, amounts to about a handful of letters, at best.”

Darcy knows her jaw is dropped, stunned at the casual reception to this news. The other women at the table keep chatting, talking about war time weddings and logistics of the ceremony. It’s moments like this that she really feels distanced, out of her time. Darcy’s known relationships where the people have dated for years, only to end in break up rather than marriage. Granted, this isn’t the first wartime marriage she’s heard of; if anything, she’s heard of more marriages in her months since she enlisted than she did the past ten years of her 21st century life. Course, since this is the generation that spawned the baby boom, they have to start somewhere.

Jo’s the one that notices Darcy’s surprise and shrugs. 

“It’s becoming the norm rather than the exception,” Jo says. “Over half the damn people on this base will end up leaving this war with a ring on their finger at this rate.”

“Still…” Darcy trails off, unsure of what to say. 

“Ain’t no matter to us,” Jo says definitively. “She knows what she’s doing and it’s her decision. One of the few we all have at this point. We wake up to meals that are already dictated for us, our entire days planned out to the smallest minute with missions. We go to sleep, we wake up, and we do it all over again. She might have only known the guy a month; you know better than most that living a month here is practically a lifetime.”

It’s the truth. For only being twenty-six, or as close as some roughly sketched out math with the time displacement can figure, Darcy feels that age at least half over again. Every month goes by in hurry-up-and-wait moments, time both moving at a snail’s pace while simultaneously speeding by. Feeling like each day has been stretched into three with the amount of emotional toll poured into each moment.

The conversation shifts after Jo’s declaration and Darcy doesn’t really feel the loss. Instead, she settles back with her scotch, nursing the drink for the next hour. Jo keeps shooting her worried looks, but Darcy shrugs them off. For the most part, she’s fine. It’s nothing the other woman said, because it’s the honest truth. Just leaves an uneasy feeling in her stomach, though Darcy’s damned if she could figure out why.

The group breaks up eventually, all of them taking up different haunts in the pub. Darcy volunteers to stay at the table, giving them a home base to retreat from unwanted company as needed. Every once in awhile, a man will stop by to offer her a drink or some conversation. Darcy indulges them for a bit, but they’re all clearly looking for a little more than just pleasant company and Darcy isn’t much in the mood. 

None of them linger for long.

After the third man has wandered away, Darcy is left fiddling with her empty glass for entertainment. She’s debating if she wants to bother getting another, and having to pay for another, just to have something to do with her hands. Darcy’s never been one to drink to intoxication, doesn’t even know if she could, to be honest, with her mutant healing. She knows Logan has made a damn good effort and, with enough liquor fast enough, he can do it. Darcy, though, has never had the pain or desperation in her life that drives Logan to those depths.

Plus, she’s still getting used to the idea of having some money again in her pocket and it seems foolish to waste it on liquor when she knows how easily it could be gone the next day.

Decision made, Darcy’s about to take her leave when she hears Jo’s crack of a laugh from the bar. Darcy glances over to see Jo laying her hand on the arm of a guy, a pilot judging from the emblems on his uniform. He doesn’t look familiar so he must only be on the base for a short amount of time on a turnaround flight. Or is on a layover before being shipped out to his final station. Either way, from the way Jo is leaning in, her voice pitched low and intimate, he’s gonna be a one-time entertainment.

Sure enough, Jo gives him a pat on the arm, withdrawing her hand to polish off the rest of her drink resting on the bar. She gives him another smile, this one full of promises, all of them sinful, and a wink. She then walks, purpose in every step, to Darcy, who merely lifts an eyebrow at the woman.

“Gonna leave the boy hanging like that?” she asks.

“Would I do that?” Jo replies with a toss of her hair, smirk wide on her lips. Darcy merely continues to stare, rather pointedly at that.

“Nah, just came to ask, you got any rubbers left from the last round?” she asks. Women don’t get the prophylactics in their rations kits like the men do, double-freaking-standard. But some of the women in supplies manage to keep a weather eye out for extra crates that can easily be ‘lost’ and redistributed among the women at the base. 

“I have all the rubbers left from the last round,” Darcy replies dryly, already digging through her purse that’s plopped on the chair next to her. “Some of us don’t burn through them like air.”

“Wanna help a girl out?” Jo asks, ignoring the quip. “I’d rather not have to rely on him having some with him. I’ll get you the next time. If there ever is a next time,” she adds with a pointed look.

Darcy shrugs, handing over one of the metal containers that should have at least three condoms. Might seem ambitious, but Darcy’s a girl scout with her prophylactics. And god, does she miss her birth control, for so many reasons at this point that aren’t even including sex. Sex she clearly isn’t having anyway. “Maybe. Some guy ever catches my eye, sure.”

Jo takes the container, putting it in her pocket. She doesn’t stop looking at Darcy the entire time, though, her lips pursed. 

“Thing is, Darce, I’m not gonna tell you what to do. What works for me doesn’t have to work for you. But what I do know is that, outside of getting a drink or two with us, you don’t do anything for yourself. You wake up, you do the missions. I’m not saying to go crazy and sleep with every guy that gives you the once over,” she says. 

She leans down, hands on the table so she’s level with Darcy as she says the next bit. “What I am saying is you gotta do some living before you die. And you aren’t doing any.”

With that, Jo walks back to the man, who’s eyes haven’t left her the entire time she was talking to Darcy, warm and waiting. Jo slips her hand through his arm and, with a gentle tug and a throaty laugh, pulls him away from the bar and out the door. Darcy watches them walk out, Jo’s words weighing heavy on her mind. There’s a truth ringing in them, one that leaves a cold awareness washing through Darcy. 

She’s living a half-life since she landed in the past, merely putting one foot in front of the other just to get to the next step, the next day. No risks, no living outside of what’s required. She hasn’t even made any other friends outside of Jo; the women tonight at their table, for all intents and purposes, are really Jo’s friends, not Darcy’s. Darcy doesn’t even know the names of half of the faces surrounding her. 

And maybe it’s time Darcy should be more open to changing that fact, doing more things just for her. Or even a few things just for her. She’s making a life here; it’s about time she started acting like it.

*

Eventually, finally, after the first few months, there’s an increase in the number of male pilots being stationed on the front, which means less handy pilots staying on their base. As a result, Darcy, and Jo, too, finally get their chance. It starts off as a mission here and there, being pulled when the base is short on pilots. As they prove their worth with each successful mission, however, they end up spending less time in the communications tower and more time in the air.

Four months after their boots hit the ground in England, even though it feels like longer, Darcy has taken over a large number of the reconnaissance missions with Jo and a few of the English women pilots stationed on base, gathering information and pictures from their plane and returning to command.

The scouting missions are pretty straightforward, for the most part. It’s usually two pilots, one flying the plane, one riding in the back with the camera. Darcy and Jo are paired together more often than not when they’re both on base, since they work well together. 

They usually switch back and forth, Jo flying one mission and Darcy flying the next, though that’s sometimes switched up depending on the results of the weekly poker match. Jo typically only bets the flights that are guaranteed to be boring, the ones with no challenge in the route. Darcy doesn’t care, by this point, and is eager to snatch up any chance for time behind the stick after being grounded for so long.

The one who doesn’t get to fly rides in the back seat until they reach their destination. Once at their target, that’s when they’re expected to pop their head up over the side of the biplane and prop a camera nearly half the size of Darcy up on the side to take a series of aerial shots. Most of the time, it’s a quick turn around, with more time spent flying to and from the assignment than is actually spent taking the pictures of the sights.

A large majority of their assignments are for third phrase targets, ones that are meant for long-term analysis and have no immediate timeline for attack. Places that are industrial targets, like coal plants.

That’s most of the time. 

Sometimes, on rare occasions, they’re given the chance of second phase target, something with a little more excitement and entertainment. And it’s on one of those missions that Darcy has her first really big fuck-up.

When she’s looking over the flight plan to Norway that morning, there’s something in the back of her mind, bothering her about the location. Part of her is kicking itself for the fact that she never really paid enough attention in her history classes. Darcy could tell you stories, all of them very general and composed of the ideas everyone from her time knows about the war, of course. But hard facts about battles like locations and time lines and points of attack, well, she’s hopeless lost. 

It’s something she’s regretting now, something she can’t stop mentally berating, especially with the idea of the concentration camps, and the subsequent mutant experimentation camps, weighing heavily on her soul. It’s one of the greatest atrocities of this century. Even worse, it’s an atrocity that never came to light until near the end of the war. And it’s not something Darcy can do much about without proof.

Proof that can come in the form of photos. Photos that she conveniently has the ability to get.

However, she has two major problems with this scenario. The first is that she has limited clearance for her flights and Germany definitely isn’t included as part of her flyover territory. The second is that she has no clue where these camps are located. Hard as she tries to remember her history, the closest she can get is that almost all the camps were initially based inside German borders, only spreading once Germany gained control of a region.

As far as actual camp names and locations, Auschwitz is the only one she can think of with any certainty. And that’s only because she remembers _Anne Frank’s Diary_ as part of her required reading in grade school. Xavier’s school, for understandable reasons, was rather emphatic on educating their students on the possible atrocities committed in the name of fear and hate.

Though Auschwitz is based in Poland, Darcy still doesn’t have a flight anywhere close that she could justify it to her superiors if she diverted. Plus, she can’t guarantee she’ll make it back through the heavily fortified German lines. Very few planes do when in groups. Less so when solo, like she would have to fly for a scouting mission.

It isn’t until she’s in the air with Jo sitting behind her that Darcy realizes why the name on the map clicked in her mind.

Bredvet. A neighborhood in Oslo.

Darcy thinks, possibly, it might be the location of a concentration camp, though that isn’t why it sticks in her mind. Instead, the name is familiar because it’s close to the area where one of the camps known for mutant experimentation resides. Most concentration camps were placed with consideration as to continuing development for the Nazi campaign, like conveniently next to a quarry where they could send their prisoners to spend the day bolstering the German economy. Sometimes they were pulled from the quarry to work on construction projects or even producing weapons. After all, forced labor is cheap labor and the Nazi party is quick to take advantage of that fact.

Mutant experimentation camps were a whole different story.

She remembers sitting in her old history classroom at Xavier’s. It was an afternoon class, right after lunch, with sun streaming in the large floor to ceiling windows on the side of the classroom. Darcy remembers always struggling with trying to focus, to not drift off and fall asleep. Not because of the subject; no, it was because it was warm and cozy, with the wood wainscoting and the cream walls. 

The type of comfortable and welcoming warmth she hasn’t felt in months. Practically a year.

She remembers the small innocuous things about that room, like the wood surface of her desk table that she shared with two other students worn soft and smooth from years of use. Her stomach would be full of good food, the memory giving her current bland oatmeal filled stomach a pang in remorse.

But what she remembers most is that particular afternoon, the Professor was a guest speaker for the class. Darcy thinks they had just started the unit on WWII in her History 1900-Present, since that makes the most sense. 

The Professor was already waiting in the room while the students filtered in, noisy with laughter and gossip. Spirits high and excited from the freedom of lunch, not ready to settle down to spend the next few hours learning. Of course, the Professor was a patient man, and, more so, was the sort of man to command a room. 

The students quickly settled, partly out of respect, partly out of curiosity. Darcy remembers the Professor holding a book, his hand resting softly on the worn leather. It looked like a journal more so than a bound novel and his care and respect for the book was telegraphed in every gesture, translated in each move with the amount of care he took in the handling.

“Years ago, this journal was gifted to me by a friend,” Xavier announced, the tips of his fingers resting lightly on the binding. He looked around the classroom, making eye contact with every student, as if to stress the value and importance of what he holds. “It was given with the intent for my eyes to be opened, to make me more aware of the world. I would like to share parts of it with you, now, for the same purpose.”

The Professor then opened the book and read, his voice loud, clear, projecting to every corner of the room without effort. 

_“Eventually, two of Himmler’s SS men came for us. They rounded us up. We were told nothing, but, because of rumors and warnings, we knew well enough what was going to happen. Our possessions, a lifetime of work and belongings, were taken right in front of us. The few treasures deemed worthy were slipped into the pockets of men with expressions challenging us to say something, wanting the excuse to exercise their power._

_My father stood silently by, but I could see his jaw clench, tight enough to hear his teeth grind together, when they removed the pocket watch he had been given by his father. The guard could clearly see the sentiment held by my father for the trinket. And, even though it would have had worth on the market, the man let it drop to the floor to crush, with a hard stomp, under the sole of his boot. I heard the crack of the glass, the twist of the heel grinding the shattered pieces into the wood floor. My father’s fist clenched, tight enough to turn his skin white with restraint, and that was enough for the guard. His smile spread, cruel, victorious, as he crowed that he had found a new recruit to for the Bredvet quarry._

_While the men took away my father, his head was held high and his shoulders thrown back, tall and unwavering._

_At the time, I knew, with my whole being, this would be the last time I saw my father._

_My mother didn’t dare make a noise, whether for fear or for strength, to not give this man more satisfaction, I’m still not certain. She couldn’t help the tears down her face and, with her hand clasped and squeezing tightly in mine, warning me to keep quiet, I couldn’t help the shuddering breaths, unable to take a steady inhale._

_This wasn’t enough of a victory for the guard, though. He leaned down to whisper in my ear, his hand holding my shoulder firm when I tried to jerk away from the warm breath against my skin._

_His breath reeked of a foul smelling licorice when he spoke. ‘We seem to be having a rather difficult time keeping good help with all the work to be done. Most do not last the month. We shall see if your father does better, won’t we?’”_

The professor then shut the book and looked up at his students. Darcy remembers feeling the urge to grab the book from his lap, torn between wanting to devour the words on the page and wanting to throw the damned thing in the fire. The rest of the day was spent on a lesson concerning internment camps, both by the United States and by Germany. The lesson which turned out to be the lead-in to the discussion of mutant experimentation camps.

In contrast to concentration camps, mutant experimentation camps, where the prime goal was experimentation and the risk of escape was higher, were generally placed in remote locations. The idea was to reduce the risk of the few who managed to make it out of their cells actually gaining their freedom. Most were hunted down in the woods. Shot and left for dead, unless they were of value to the scientists. Like those with unique or powerful mutations.

‘Course, those camps were never much more than a footnote in the history books.

After the war ended and the camps were discovered, the Axis powers did their best to cover everything up. They didn’t want others repeating the experiments and there was already enough fallout from the war; couldn’t have another starting right on the back with the exposure of mutants. Xavier’s students, though, were able to learn from first hand accounts, told from Eric Lensherr to Charles Xavier when they were both young. Eric had thought the knowledge would serve as justification for his actions; Charles thought the stories would serve as knowledge, as warning.

Darcy knows that, by the end of the war, Eric Lensherr will end up in a camp near Auschwitz. But he doesn’t start there. Instead, he’s transferred from camp to camp. There’s never much reason given to him for the transfers, he told Charles. No reason to tell the cattle why it’s being shipped off. Twice, his family managed to escape, only to be recaptured. Sold out in exchange for mercy the first time. Simple foolishness the second time.

It’s a burning anger in her gut that drives Darcy’s actions. She’s miles away, a mere half an hour in flight time from where she remembers the mutant camp being located; she can’t not go. Especially since this camp is located in the countryside, not in the middle of the country’s capital city. Less reinforcements, less eyes to notify and ready the attack to shoot her down.

It’s a rare chance, an opportunity that Darcy doesn’t know if she’ll get again.

She can’t not try.

It doesn’t matter if she ends up in trouble for her actions, if she’s banished back to the communications tower or even booted out and kicked back to the states. She can’t be this close and do nothing.

This camp isn’t one that Lensherr, Magneto, had gone through during his time, so, even if she could remembered detailed information about the location, it wouldn’t help much. Instead, it was just one of those mentioned that stuck with Darcy purely because of the location. Norway. It seemed so odd, so out of place, both in what she knew of the context of the war and geographically. She hadn’t realized, at the time, that Norway was one of the countries that had fallen to German occupation.

If she’s remembering right, and that’s a big ‘if,’ the conquering of Norway was sometime in 1940, early in the war. It’s now ‘42 and the camps are probably well-established. Which means there’s a good chance of Darcy getting something to show for the shitstorm of trouble she’s about to get herself into.

Jo doesn’t pick up on the divergence off course right away. It isn’t that unusual for them to stray a few miles, check out the area for a more thorough examination. But when Darcy doesn’t turn back after ten minutes, Jo speaks up.

“You gonna fill me in on whatever hair-brained plan is rolling through your head?” she calls over the radio system.

“Depends on if you want plausible deniability,” Darcy returns. “Don’t ask. I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

“I’m going to get in hot water anyway,” Jo grumbles. “Because I always go along with your fool plans. So lay it on me. Should at least know what’s getting my ass in the sling this time.”

Darcy weighs her options. The hum of the plane engines serve to fill the silence as she tries to figure out how much of a half-truth she can tell the other woman and not sound like she’s off her rocker.

“Waiting,” Jo interrupts impatiently. “Don’t start holding back on me now, Lewis.”

“It’s part hunch, part rumor,” Darcy hedges.

“’Course it is,” Jo replies. Darcy can practically hear the rolling of the other woman’s eyes. “You never do things the easy way.”

Darcy has to give that one to Jo for being the straight up truth, tipping her head in an acknowledgment the other woman can’t see. “Heard from a couple gossips that there are some camps near here. Kind of like POW, but worse.”

Jo is quiet for a few minutes. 

“You mean like the camps we have back home?” she asks, her voice low and hard to hear over the sound of the engines and the wind. “Internment camps?” she clarifies in a bitter tone. 

They haven’t talked about it much, the action being taken back in the states, so this is the first time Darcy is getting a read on Jo’s thoughts. There’s a feeling of relief at the distaste coming through loud and clear, even over the crackle of the radio.

“Yeah,” Darcy answers. “Something like that. Labor camps. Internment camps. There’s rumors that they might be doing some medical experiments on the prisoners. Or worse.”

“Then keep flying,” Jo orders. “Just tell me when to pop my head over the side to get the pictures.”

It takes awhile, but, eventually, they fly over the camp. As they get closer, Darcy pulls out the binoculars and makes a slow turn to scope out the lay of the land.

“We’re only going to have one shot at this,” Darcy radios. “They have a perimeter set up, barbed fence, watch towers. And I think I see some planes on the ground.”

“Get us in there, I’ll make it count,” Jo promises. “You don’t defend that heavily when there’s nothing valuable. And, considering how damn short we’re getting on planes with the supply lines, you don’t leave some just laying around when they aren’t gonna be put to good use.”

Darcy can feel the shifting weight of the plane as Jo hauls the camera over the side. Once Jo is ready, Darcy straightens out the plane and heads straight for the camp. She flies right up the middle, not having to worry too much about attacks since the camp, thankfully, doesn’t have any anti-aircraft guns in place. She’s at a high enough altitude that, although she can hear the pop-pop-pop of rifles being shot, the bullets aren’t going to hit them.

Once on the other end, Darcy ups the throttle to full speed. She’s hoping, desperately, that they aren’t going to scramble their pilots for one lone plane.

“You good?” she radios to Jo.

“Yeah, settled back in. Don’t know how good those photos are gonna be, though,” Jo replies. “Looked just like a basic POW camp once we were in there.”

“I know,” Darcy says. She noticed that, too. Course, what did she think she was gonna get? A big banner that said, “we do sketchy and totally unethical medical experimentation here?” She could only be so lucky. Unfortunately, as it stands, though a POW camp is obviously something to worry about, it’s a low concern. When fighting a war as massive as this one, it isn’t a priority to liberate every prisoner camp.

Once they land, the camera and film are handed over for development before the pair heads to their debriefing. On the flight back, Darcy and Jo had agreed to be up front, telling their commander about the deviation from the flight path, rather than wait until the photographs turned them in. Sure enough, after the ass chewing, there are official reprimands slapped on their records. Darcy attempts to take responsibility, as primary pilot, but Jo is all too ready to jump in the fire, despite the dirty looks Darcy shoots her way.

Only once they’re walking away from a curt dismissal does Jo confront Darcy. 

“I agreed, Lewis,” she growls under her breath when Darcy argues with her. “I fully supported this idea. Don’t you dare try to take the responsibility away from me. I won’t stand for it.”

Darcy bites back the argument that’s on the tip of her tongue at the fierce look in the other woman’s eyes. Instead, she sighs. “Fine,” she concedes. “And thanks.”

“Ain’t nothing,” Jo dismisses. “Besides, even if the pictures are worthless, I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

It isn’t until the next day, when the photographs are developed, that Darcy finds out Jo’s words hit almost true to the mark. While not worthless, since the images definitely depict an active internment camp with some suspicious, and unidentifiable, buildings, there’s not enough to merit action.

Darcy looks over the pictures tossed in front of her on the desk by her commander. The man stays sitting, stony-faced, as she scours the images, looking for anything to justify her actions. Darcy can’t help the numb feeling that settles deeper and deeper in her chest with each image. She starts back at the beginning, flipping through them, desperation driving her actions as she hopes to see something she missed the first go around.

There’s nothing.

“We have an incident like this again, I’ll be discharging you from service. You’ll be sent back to the states on the first plane, boat, or goddamn raft I can find. You’re only still here because of your record to this point, barring this incident. One shot, Lewis. That’s it,” he says. He then dismisses her with a curt nod to the door.

Darcy’s throat is tight, unable to choke down the bitter taste of defeat in her mouth the entire walk back to the barracks.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, this is the first chapter of this update. Chapter Eleven is the second chapter of the update. Originally, this was supposed to be one chapter, but then it ended up being about 8,000+ words and, for ease of reading, I broke them up. 
> 
> Also, Bucky is in chapter eleven so please don't think that I promised you Bucky and you didn't get Bucky. There is Bucky in the Bucky/Darcy story.
> 
> I'm apologizing up front for any issues with beta work. I just finally, FINALLY finished the last 2,000 words of this chapter today. And, because I'm relieved and giddy and excited about that, I read through quickly, correcting issues here and there, but in no way catching every possible problem. Point is, I wanted to get this up because I hate going this long between updates and now the beta work is going to be the thing that suffers from that impatience. My apologies.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy and thank you so, so very much for reading. I'm pretty horribly behind in replying to comments, but I'm going to make a concentrated effort to catch up this week.

It takes a few weeks of banishment to the communications tower before Darcy is trusted behind a plane again. The entire situation is a sour taste in her mouth, especially since the photos are left sitting in a file on some desk, untouched and worthless.

Thankfully, she manages to get her hands on a copy of the photos to keep as her own, though hell if she knows what she’s going to do with them. Darcy can only hope she’ll eventually come across someone a little more reckless because, honestly, at this point, it’d take a fool, and a blind one at that, to go off of the nonexistent proof she holds.

Four weeks after the reprimand, Darcy is standing once again in front of her commander’s desk. Colonel Anderson doesn’t look up when she walks into the room, standing at attention. Instead, he finishes his review of the report on top of a rather large stack in front of him. He shakes his head, frustration clear, though at what, Darcy couldn’t guess. Despite the annoyance, he’s scrawling his signature in a chicken scratch before tossing it on another pile.

Once complete, the colonel leans back in his chair to finally look at Darcy.

“Did a month manage to cool your heels or are we gonna have to keep you there a little while longer, Lewis?” he asks.

Darcy maintains her posture, not wanting to screw up the chance to get back in the air with even the smallest hint of insubordination. Logic knows she’s in the wrong and her pride needs to take a back seat right now. She nods, short and curt. “Yes, sir. I’m ready and willing to go back to the air, if that’s the order.”

Colonel Anderson fixes her with an assessing gaze, lips pinched tight. His face is stony, giving away nothing other than a certain attitude that manages to make a stone of dread sink heavy in the pit of Darcy’s stomach. Her mouth is dry and she has to remind herself to breathe, to not hold her breath in hope.

Finally, he nods. “We’ll give it a trial basis,” the colonel says, voice gruff. He jabs a finger in Darcy’s direction. “Next screw up, Lewis, your ass will be in a munitions factory back in New Jersey. We’re short of pilots and you’re good. Reliable up to this incident. But I don’t care how good you are,” he emphasizes with a hard jab to his wood top of his desk before pointing at her, “because I’m not going to be putting the lives of any of these men in your hands if you can’t be trusted.”

“Understandable, sir,” Darcy acknowledges. Her hands are gripped together tight behind her back, white knuckled, in an effort to keep her calm and collected appearance despite the giddiness building inside. The tempered giddiness because, even though she’s happy to be back in the air, she doesn’t like the bitter taste of disappointing a superior that accompanies the news. “I’ll earn back the trust. I’m willing to put in the effort and the time to prove myself again.”

“You’ll finish out the rest of the week in Communications. On Monday, show up dressed and with your gear at 0800. I’m putting you down for supply transport,” he pauses to raise an eyebrow. “Hopefully your curiosity won’t have you veering off course.”

“Yes, sir,” Darcy answers back, heart in her throat. She swallows, trying to keep her excitement, mixed with a heavy dose of relief, contained. The rest of the week amounts to two days, thankfully. She can last two days with the promise of a return to the air looming. “0800. I’ll be ready.”

With a wave, the man dismisses Darcy. Darcy takes the stairs and, once she’s out of the building and, more importantly, out of earshot, she lets out whoop and jumps in the air, fist held high. There’s a pair of women passing who give her startled looks, then just smile as they continue on their way. Probably not the weirdest thing they’ve seen even today.

Darcy waves as they pass and shrugs, keeping the smile spread wide on her face as she tracks down Jo to share the news. The other woman has been back in the air for two weeks now and has managed to maintain a guilty expression each time she catches Darcy’s eye while changing into her flight gear.

Course, the first thing the other woman does when Darcy tells her, besides hug Darcy, is to immediately drag her down to the local watering hole for a celebratory whiskey. Darcy’s running too high on adrenaline to even argue. Instead, she’s the one practically pulling Jo out the door. 

Their little group ends up joining them throughout the night, stopping by as each of them get off shift. It’s somewhere into her third drink, just enough to warm the depths of her belly thanks to her mutation, that Darcy sits back in her chair to look at the faces around her. 

The warmth from the old lanterns is casting a hazy glow to the women gathered, softening the edges. They’re far enough into the night, with enough liquor and good company, that the tensions of the day have dropped off their collective shoulders. ‘Course, the reprieve is brief, only to be picked up, to be once again be a burden, in the morning. 

But, in this moment, with laughter and good-natured jokes flowing around her, and the promise of the return to the sky imminent, Darcy feels more content than she has in a long time.

***

While Darcy is ecstatic to be able to start pulling flight missions again, that enthusiasm, like all things, wans, and is enough to only carry her through the first two weeks. After that, well, the war starts taking it’s price. To survive, Darcy does like all the others, rebuilding her walls and burying her head in the everyday routine. Do what you need, do what you must. Sleep and do it another day.

The first week back isn’t too bad, with Darcy mostly on supply flights. All of which are, for the most part, pretty bland. They have the benefit of a quick turnaround, which means she can usually spend the night in her own bed back on base. 

Unless, that is, Darcy ends up in a high engagement territory and has to crash overnight at a foreign base because of the restriction on the number of flights allowed to leave. 

On a few occasions, she’s delivering the plane she’s flying as part of the supplies and has to wait until the next flight back to her home base. While not the norm, it’s a circumstance that happens often enough for Darcy to keep a bag of necessities, mostly a toothbrush and a change of clothes, tucked in her flight bag.

Sometimes, at some bases when she has to do an overnight and there’s more people than beds, Darcy has to roll into a mattress just vacated by someone else reporting for duty. Beds that can be sweat-drenched, with sheets disheveled and torn from the tossing of their occupant. Sheets that are proof of everyone’s terrors, what they wrestle with in their dreams. That the war doesn’t even leave the soldiers with their sleep.

The sheets are just damp enough to cling to her body as Darcy tries to slip under them, leaving her with a feeling of disgust. Like she’ll never be clean again. Half the time, she tosses the whole lot to the end of the bed and goes without, despite the chill that seems to hang constantly in the air. Though she finds it hard to sleep without the weight of something on top of her, even a light sheet, Darcy learns to adjust because it’s better than the alternative.

On those nights in a strange base, in a thin and lumpy bed, a heavy smell of musk and cologne, pungent and offensive, mixes in her nose when she buries her face in the pillow. It overwhelms every breath she takes with the unfamiliar and unwelcome stench, each inhale clogged and thick. 

While definitely not the worst thing, overnights with bases stuffed to the brim with busy bodies quickly becomes one of the things Darcy dreads. One of those things that can put her off the entire day if she knows that’s what is going to be waiting for her at the end. She hates having to slip into sheets warmed by a body she doesn’t know.

But, it’s just a part of war, part of her new life. She gets used to it, like all the other things she’s encountered in this time.

She gets used to it, but she never likes it.

“Christ, just stick a fork in me. I’m done,” Darcy moans as she collapses on the mattress. The metal frame gives an annoying and shrill shriek from the jostle. She turns over, burying her face in her pillow. Finally, back in her own bed, at least for the night.

“You got another turn around tomorrow?” Jo asks. Darcy turns her head to see the other woman removing the pins from her hair, tossing them with little regard on the desk. Jo attempts to fluff out her hair, but most of the style holds after being pinned up for over fifteen hours. Darcy can see the reflection of Jo’s face scrunched up in annoyance in the mirror.

“Yeah,” Darcy answers. She’s exhausted just thinking about the list of flights on the docket for tomorrow. “Back to back transports, seven of them, with an overnight in North Africa.” 

Even in her conversations with Jo, Darcy’s careful to keep the locations general. All the pilots in their group are careful to follow that doctrine, horror stories of spies in the ranks serving as a warning. Maybe an overkill, but Darcy’s watched a WWII movie or two from her time to know that supposition isn’t too far from the truth. Women spies, especially.

Jo sits on the edge of her bed, carefully removing her stockings. Darcy’s down to her last good pair and Jo’s hoard is dwindling just as rapidly.

“Troop or supplies?” she asks, carefully rolling the nylons.

“All troops,” Darcy replies. Jo makes a sour face and Darcy shrugs. It’s a learning experience, with troop transport being a mixed bag, sometimes good, sometimes bad. Of course, there’s a multitude of soldiers they encounter on a daily basis, transporting both entire platoons comprised of up to fifty men or small sections of just four men. 

At first, the number of men Darcy met became a sea of nameless faces. Only the assholes stuck in her mind then. The ones that think it’s a good time to be had by razzing the pilot just because she’s a woman and she, clearly, needs to be reminded of her place. Slowly, though, and thankfully, that sort of encounter has tapered off, or Darcy’s just been lucky enough to not have those assholes on her flights as much. 

Or she’s just becoming used to the attitude and doesn’t notice it as much anymore because anger at ass-backwards attitudes doesn’t serve her well right now. Which isn’t a comforting thought in the least.

Instead, now, Darcy is starting to recognize and bond with the good guys. The ones that couldn’t care less about the fact that she’s a female flying them. The ones who’ll have a nod of familiarity or even a quick word to say in greeting. The ones that might have a laugh or a story to share with her since the last time they crossed paths. 

Darcy isn’t sure it’s anything someone could start to call friendship, but it’s enough to be called comfortable familiarity. Something to make a long flight go by a little faster, especially as she grows to dread the flights full of rookies fresh from training. They’re so full of hopped up on anticipation and false joy puffed up to cover their nerves. So naive, with their banter of how many Nazis they’re gonna bag. It turns Darcy’s stomach to know half of them could be dead within the month.

While the veterans are quieter, rougher, they still have their humor, even if it’s much darker in order to cope. It’s a humor Darcy relates to more and more as her own service continues. While she hasn’t been on the front lines, Darcy has already experience her share of loss. She’s had men on the comm while she was in tower suddenly have their radios go silent. Where there was once a voice, full of life, in her ear, there’s only the ominous and telling scratch of empty air. She’s had wounded men rushing past her on medical stretchers when she’s on an active base, the life going out of their eyes before they make it to the medical tents.

As a result, Darcy finds that she can let her guard down with the weathered and weary men a little more than with the rookies. They know the stakes, they know the reality. Nobody is here to be a hero; they’re here just to try and stay alive.

“Might not be that bad,” she offers. “It’s settling down enough that I’m getting some good guys on the flights.”

“Oh?” Jo asks, looking up with an expectant grin. “Anyone interesting?”

“Not like that,” Darcy replies dryly. “I just meant that I’m finally on a good stretch, where most of the guys couldn’t care less that they have a woman as a pilot. So long as I get them from point A to point B without any problems, they’re good with it.”

Jo nods. “Figure there are always going to be ones that want to bitch about it, like it makes them more important or gives them more legitimacy. But I think the rest are getting kind of used to having us there. Plus, I’m hoping that, by this point, we’ve proven we can do the job.”

“Still bullshit that we have to jump through a bunch of hoops proving ourselves all the time,” Darcy mutters.

“Not saying it’s right,” Jo reassures. “Just saying this is the way it is.”

“Yeah, I know.” Darcy sighs, scrunching up her face. “Heard while I was finishing up my paperwork that we lost two more pilots on transport flights today. One was Sarah,” she says. 

The woman, since she was stationed at a different base, wasn’t a regular with their little group, but was on the base often enough to grab more than a few drinks after shifts. Enough for Darcy to remember her laugh and the way she’d throw her head back, as if she couldn’t hold up the weight under the force of her amusement trying to make it’s way out of her tiny body.

Jo hums, noncommittally, and Darcy can’t hold it against her because there isn’t much else to say. 

Darcy flops back over and, with a sigh, heaves herself out of the bed. Jo’s already changing, swapping out her skirt from a day on base for a pair of trousers and a thick sweater. Meanwhile, Darcy’s still in her flying duty uniform, with only the tie around her neck loosened and the jacket unbuttoned.

“Give me a minute to change,” she tells Jo, waving a hand at her outfit. “If I didn’t need food, I’d probably just fall asleep in this damn thing. Feels like I spend most of my time in it anyway.”

“That’s because you probably are,” Jo points out dryly, leaning against the door frame to wait. “This is the longest I’ve seen you, at least conscious, in the past week.”

“I know,” Darcy says. “But that’s not all just me. You’ve barely been on base.”

“Took a couple extra missions. Word is, they’re gonna start pulling women to do some of night bombing runs. Trying to make sure my name is going to be on that list.”

Darcy’s head shoots up from where she’s digging around in her drawer. “I hadn’t heard that,” she says. “You really think it’s true?”

“Wouldn’t be burning the candle at both ends if I didn’t think it might happen,” Jo replies. “Way I figure, outside that one bout of poor decision-making,”she pauses to fix Darcy with a pointed look before continuing, brushing the matter off just as quickly as it’s mentioned, “we both have a decent chance. We both take on a large number of troop transports, successfully and usually ahead of schedule. Including those little side special missions to drop off scouts and snipers that we’re not supposed to know anything about.”

Darcy snorts. “Yes. Because that’s stopped you before.”

Jo shrugs, lips curved in amusement. “I might have picked up a tidbit or two. Some of those boys get pretty chatty when you bat your eyes at them just right.”

“Clearly you missed your calling as a spy,” Dracy replies. “Might make a better spy than a pilot, really, with all these tricks you keep trying to get me to pick up.”

“Oh, shove off,” Jo tells her good-naturedly. “You’ll be thanking me when you finally have a good reason to bat your eyes and pout your lips.”

“I’ve never pouted my lips a day in my life and I’m not going to start now,” Darcy retorts, dryly.

“We’ll see,” Jo says, smiling in a knowing and smug way that annoys Darcy, but she’s too worn out to care at this point. It’s a worthless fight, anyway. She’s fully aware, and accepted, that she’s terrible at flirting. Jo sending her little tips, while, for the most part, is amusing, isn’t anything Darcy can see herself actually acting on and not coming out looking like an idiot. She just doesn’t have the right attitude to carry it off.

With her shoes pulled on, Darcy stands and brushes past Jo out the door. 

“Let’s get going before I fall asleep standing up,” she tells the other woman. Jo says nothing as she steps in line with Darcy, hooking her arm through Darcy’s as they walk. It’s a better peace offering than words, anyway.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Darcy manages to make her way through the crowd and, in the distance, catches a glimpse of her assigned plane. It’s a beauty, a recently converted Boeing Flying Fortress modified for troop and supply transport rather than heavy bombing. Darcy can see a group gathered around the plane, about twenty or so men, already waiting.
> 
> She quickens her pace and, as she gets closer and is able to make out some of the features of the men, there’s one dark-haired figure that catches her eye. Darcy squints and her steps falter, then slow to a crawl, as she recognizes the man standing in front of her as one she never honestly thought she’d see again.
> 
> Even if Darcy didn’t know him, didn’t recognize him, Bucky Barnes is the sort of man that would stand out from a group merely on presence alone. He’s not the kind of handsome that’s movie star handsome, the polished and fake and plastic. Instead, he’s the kind of handsome that’s made all the more unattainable for fact that he’s real, flesh and bone and with faults just like any person, and in front of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoaaa, wait, there's actually Bucky in this chapter? THERE IS. In a Bucky/Darcy fic, there is finally Bucky and Darcy interaction. Yes!
> 
> Also, please note, this is the second chapter of this update. Chapter Ten is the first chapter of the update. Originally, this was supposed to be one chapter, but then it ended up being about 8,000+ words and, for ease of reading, I broke them up. 
> 
> Ok, I'm apologizing up front for any issues with beta work. I just finally, FINALLY finished the last 2,000 words of this chapter today. And, because I'm relieved and giddy and excited about that, I read through quickly, correcting issues here and there, but in no way catching every possible problem. Point is, I wanted to get this up because I hate going this long between updates and now the beta work is going to be the thing that suffers from that impatience. My apologies.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy and thank you so, so very much for reading. I'm pretty horribly behind in replying to comments, but I'm going to make a concentrated effort to catch up this week.

It’s an early morning in April, with the hint of spring and warmth finally in the air. The tulip bulbs, one of Darcy’s favorite flowers, for all that she’s terrible at gardening, around the base are pushing through the ground, with some even sprouting blooms. Some industrious individual has taken to transporting a few of the varieties to areas pitted and torn apart by bombs, helping to soften the scarred landscape.

With a lightness to her step, the grin on Darcy’s face manages to stay even after she has to wait when she stops in the office to pick up her mission listing for the day. When the packet is finally in hand, Darcy thanks the clerk and heads out to the planes, hastily reading as she walks.

She’s starting off with a transport flight to North Africa, which usually isn’t too bad of a way to begin the day. It definitely promises to be more entertaining than her last few flights, most of which involved dropping off new shiny planes, each one catching her eye and managing to make her fall in love all over again, no matter how short the flight. Unfortunately, Darcy is leaving her new love in the hands of someone else, turning right around to fly the beaten and broken ones back home to be scraped out for parts.

Which means a lot of time in the air, all of it with very limited human interaction. To say she is absolutely starving for conversation is an understatement. By the time she manages to get back to base at night, everyone is already in bed, on a vicious cycle of mission, eat, sleep, repeat. While Darcy can stay up for longer bouts, if needed, there’s really no point if all she’s going to be doing is sitting in her dark bed, twiddling her thumbs.

As Darcy pages through the packet, she skips over the flight rosters with the listing of the soldiers in an attempt to save time. Besides, there aren’t enough names she recognizes to make it worth her while to page through the tiny font. Darcy’s only hope is that she isn’t flying a bunch of new recruits to their first station. 

Darcy does, however, read through the entire mission summary and finds a nice little bonus. The flight destination is one she recognizes, with the field name as one she’s flown to before. Even more important, it’s one that she knows is going to have a permanent paved landing. Much better than the temporary ones she’s been to recently, with pitted dirt and gravel. Makes for a hell of a lot smoother landing. It’s a small benefit, but a nice one, one that Darcy is learning to take advantage of after she had a tire blow out when landing last week because of the ruts. She’s pretty sure, while the tire is fixed, her teeth are still rattling.

Darcy clips the papers to her metal clipboard as she makes her way across the tarmac. A glance at her watch shows that, if she hurries, she’ll only be a little late, which still isn’t ideal. 

Even though the sun is barely in the sky, the base is already packed to the brim with soldiers and pilots, each hustling to their own destination with not much regard for those around them. There are multiple collisions around her, though Darcy is pretty sure some are on purpose, given the grins some of the men have on their faces as they offer their apologies. Darcy darts around them, quick to use her smaller stature to her benefit in this scenario. Feels almost like a game of tag back at Xavier’s mansion, with the bobbing and weaving.

Finally, Darcy manages to make her way through the crowd and, in the distance, catches a glimpse of her assigned plane. It’s a beauty, a recently converted Boeing Flying Fortress modified for troop and supply transport rather than heavy bombing. Darcy can see a group gathered around the plane, about twenty or so men, already waiting.

Darcy swears under her breath. She was kind of hoping to beat the group there so she could have all her preflight prep done and ready to go for when they boarded. Now, she feels behind, even though she really isn’t, but it’s a feeling Darcy hates. 

She quickens her pace and, as she gets closer and is able to make out some of the features of the men, there’s one dark-haired figure that catches her eye. Darcy squints and her steps falter, then slow to a crawl, as she recognizes the man standing in front of her as one she never honestly thought she’d see again.

Even if Darcy didn’t know him, didn’t recognize him, Bucky Barnes is the sort of man that would stand out from a group merely on presence alone. He’s not the kind of handsome that’s movie star handsome, the polished and fake and plastic. Instead, he’s the kind of handsome that’s made all the more unattainable for fact that he’s real, flesh and bone and with faults just like any person, and in front of her. 

Instead of the old clothes kept in pristine and fastidious shape, despite their age, that Bucky was wearing the last time she saw him, he now has Sergeant stripes sewn onto his olive colored shirt sleeves and a bolt-action rifle slung over his back. Darcy notes a service pistol strapped to his side, under his arm, which is unusual since it’s not considered a main weapon due to the short-range firing power. There’s a second pistol, along with a pouch that is undoubtedly filled with bullets, on the belt at his hip. The hip that’s cocked in a rather self-assured manner, well, that’s all Bucky.

Darcy can’t help but think that the boy from Brooklyn has become wrapped in war, just like the rest of them.

Except, Bucky is definitely no longer a boy. Even from afar, Darcy can see how the cocky, desperately trying to prove himself attitude he had in Brooklyn is gone. Instead, this man is standing tall, his posture strong with his shoulders thrown back and his chin held high. There’s confidence written in every line of his body, confidence from life experience, from surviving, rather than the false bravado he’s been forced to rely on to make it back home.

Not to say he’s made up perfectly, with every bit and piece in place. In fact, Darcy realizes as she keeps staring because she’s awkward like that, his attraction, part of what makes him so handsome, is in the flaws and the imperfections. 

There are little bits of stubble that he clearly missed on his neck with what had to be a hasty swipe of the straight blade this morning. His eyes have shadows darkening the skin under his lids, and the sense of amusement that was almost always present back in Brooklyn, even when sporting fresh bruises, is dimmed in his demeanor. But, instead of lessening the appeal, all of the changes make Bucky more appealing than any day he sat in that soup kitchen, as polished and put together as a poor Brooklyn kid could be put together.

Darcy takes a deep, steadying breath. Bucky, well, he might not be movie star handsome, but he’s the sort of handsome that leaves her flustered and tongue tied. Maybe if he were more like his old self that she saw on the regular in Brooklyn, she could play it better simply because she would put any chance or idea of something more with him immediately out of her mind. 

Which, she doesn’t even know why it matters. Guys like him and girls like her generally don’t go together, in her experience. She goes with guys like Ian Boothby, goofy and with a little bit of a confidence issue to prevent them from realizing their full allure.

But, with Bucky raw and real and present in front of her, well, it’s enough to leave Darcy feeling a little bit flustered and she can’t really say she cares much for the feeling. Makes her feel young and naive, rather than the adult, mature, and competent woman she pretends to be. 

As Darcy gets closer, she can hear the guffaws of laughter coming from the group. Bucky seems to be the source of amusement, hands gesturing wildly, theatrically, his face vibrant and expressive until a roar from his friends rises up, loud enough to momentarily cover the noise of planes taking off and landing. Bucky rocks back on his feet, thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his pants, grinning. There’s a look of immense satisfaction on his face as the others continue to laugh and rag each other on. 

Darcy can hear his voice chiming in over the group, steering the flow of conversation. Carefully keeping everyone on track and keeping the light-hearted feelings in the air, minds off the mission, even if for a moment. And just that small gesture is enough to make her feel warm inside, the knowledge that he’s perpetually and situationally aware of what those around him need and is more than willing to go out of his way to provide.

Even as the rowdy banter continues, good natured teasing and a bit of a tussling breaking out, but quick to end, Darcy notices Bucky sneaking glances away from their group to scan the area. Constantly surveilling, it seems, as his eyes make a circuit. His expression, though smiling, goes still enough for Darcy to think that he’s cataloguing his surroundings, analyzing and assessing. 

Darcy can see the pinched look around his eyes as they roam. She idly wonders if they’re as smokey of a blue as she remembers or if her mind is playing tricks, letting fondness and wishful thinking tinge her memories. In the present, though, while Bucky might be laughing with his men, and on a secure base, there’s a part of him that doesn’t let his guard down even in this setting. Part of that is war, part of that is pure back alley Brooklyn boy, Darcy thinks.

Darcy knows the minute he spots her, even mingled in amongst the hustle and bustle of activity, with people rushing around her. She knows because his eyes stop roving, his head cocks, almost in recognition, and that smile on his face becomes a little more real. She knows because he manages to catch her eye, not that hard, really, since she’s been staring at him the entire time she’s been walking because she’s, clearly, super covert and classy. 

And, once he’s caught her eye, he doesn’t break her gaze, even as that real smile turns into a slow, burning grin, taking over the entirety of his face. His facial features are practically vibrant with mischief and there’s something magnetic in that expression. Something that draws her in, sparks an interest inside her, even though the physical attraction she’s feeling right now does a damn good enough job on it’s own.

 _It’s really not right just how damn devastating that grin can be,_ Darcy mentally curses. She can feel the thrum of anticipation humming in her veins, almost the same adrenaline excitement that she gets when she’s about to put a plane into a downward tailspin, only to pull up right before the ground. The analogy feels pretty damn fitting, too.

What’s managing to really stick with her, though, are the small things. Bucky might have the devil may care smirk and the knowing look that’s currently dancing in those beguiling blue eyes down pat. But it’s the parts that make him human, make him real, that are drawing her. The way he’s keeping one hand resting on gun on his waist, for some reason, resonates with her. Makes him both protective and flawed, that there are things already sticking with him, changing him irrevocably. 

And that hint of scruff along his jawline, well, that’s always been a weakness for Darcy. She loves the feeling of whiskers scraping against the palm of her skin when she cups her hand against a man’s jaw. Loves the tickle and the bite when he turns his head just so to press a kiss to the pulse of her wrist.

So, with that thought maybe, possibly, more in the forefront of her mind than it has any right to be, Darcy throws her shoulders back, faking an assured confidence and attitude that she definitely isn’t feeling. The attention in Bucky’s face, though, manages to give some backbone to the attitude, because the appreciation and interest is written plain for anyone who’d give the man a glance. 

She just doesn’t know how much of that is genuine and how much of that is Bucky being Bucky, always up for a little flirtation and a bit of fun.

Darcy throws a bit of that devil may care smile back at him when she walks past. She quirks an eyebrow, too, practically issuing a challenge, even if she doesn’t know for what, exactly, yet. All she knows is that the expression on her face right now is the exact same one she gets, according to Jo, before she does something foolhardy and reckless.

Darcy can’t really bring herself to mind much.

Darcy’s also pretty sure that Jo would possibly count any encounter with Bucky Barnes in that category, hand’s down. Though, given Jo’s actions the other night at the pub, maybe not. Because now that Darcy’s thinking about it, she can easily see Jo rolling her eyes and probably muttering something under her breath, even as she outright pushes Darcy in Bucky’s direction.

As much as she might want to, Darcy doesn’t stop to chat as she passes. She forces herself to keep walking, though she does give him a brief nod of acknowledgment as she goes by his group. They’re already running late on the flight and she’s gonna catch hell from her commander if she doesn’t get the plane in the air.

 _Yeah, it’d be great to finally get a chance to talk to this guy,_ Darcy thinks to herself, _but it’s just gonna be one of those things._ One of those missed opportunities and, besides, she doesn’t even know the guy. Maybe he has an atrocious personality. Maybe it’s just better to have a thing for him because he’s cute rather than to have to face the reality that he’s a jerk.

And now she’s stretching and just making shit up. _Get your head back in the game, Lewis,_ Darcy orders herself as she steps into the plane. The flight is gonna go through some hostile territory, not unusual, but there’s enough of a threat that she can’t have her focus divided playing a mental game of ‘could have, would have, should have.’

Besides, Darcy knows, sadly and painfully, from past experience, that she’s just completely and utterly terrible at this sort of thing. For the most part, she’s a pretty open and engaging person, easy-going. But when she gets, for lack of a better word, overwhelmed just by the presence of a person, for any number of reasons that could be attraction or admiration, she goes quiet. She isn’t her normal self, light and joking and able to engage in banter. It’s like her brain goes blank, resorting to only the most basic of functions and responses. 

Which, basically, makes her come off cold and uninterested. As she’s been told, at least, by people once they get to know her. Exactly the opposite of what she wants, which only makes her more flustered. She’s usually better on the second meeting, but who knows if she’s going to get a second meeting. 

Darcy takes a deep breath. _Keep it together, Lewis. Get with it, you’re being ridiculous. Just treat him like any other guy, any other person, rather than the first guy that you’ve wanted to kiss, deep, intimate, and often, in months._

Which is a thought that is so not helping the getting her head back in the game plan.

Darcy pushes the whole mess aside in her head, takes another deep breath since the first one worked out so well, and focuses her mind on getting the plane ready for take off. Distantly, she can hear the men starting to board, making their way past her in the cockpit to the back of the plane. A few greet her in passing, which Darcy belatedly returns with a nod or a wave.

One man, though, doesn’t keep walking. Instead, she can feel a weight pressing on the back of her chair. Darcy doesn’t need to turn around to know who’s standing there. She can feel her pulse pick up in pace. “Something I can help you with, soldier?”

“You’re a long way from a soup kitchen in Brooklyn,” the man says, voice pitched low and, somehow, making innocuous words rumble and hit in all the right places.

Darcy turns her head to look up him, eyebrow raised. “Could say the same about you, Sergeant.”

“Bucky,” he replies. “Since I don’t think we’ve been introduced yet. Unfortunately. Though I’m not gonna complain about the chance to fix that.”

Darcy smothers the grin threatening to show itself. “That the best line you’ve got, soldier?”

“Didn’t you hear? War rations kicked in,” Bucky replies. “Hard to find a good line to drop on a pretty dame. Besides, don’t think you’d go for that sort of thing. Figured you’d brush me off with a smooth line.”

“Is that so?” Darcy asks, tipping her head. He might have a point, since she still hasn’t turned away to finish her flight prep. She doesn’t want to, anyway. Bucky is leaning down, not invading her space, but like he’s inviting her to a conversation, close and personal and just the two of them. She can’t help but lean in, accepting.

“Yep,” he affirms. “But a terrible line, well, I’m more than willing to sacrifice a little pride if it gets you to smile like you are now.”

Darcy raises an eyebrow. “Suppose you played that pretty well then, Sergeant, since your plan worked. What’s the next step?”

Bucky grins. “And give away the advantage? Don’t think so. Gotta take any advantage I can get.”

“That so? Guess I better wish you luck, then,” Darcy replies as she turns back to the dashboard in front of her to finish her flight prep. She pauses to call back over her shoulder to Barnes’ retreating form. “You can call me Lewis for now,” she informs him. “We’ll see if that changes in the future.”

“Feeling better about my luck already, Lewis,” Bucky replies back.

“Get back to your men, Barnes,” Darcy orders him.

Bucky merely grins wider at her use of his name and gives her a mock salute before taking his seat, conveniently the one closest to the cockpit. Seems his men are more than willing to help him conspire, Darcy notes, as a man in, dear lord, is that a bowler hat? How in the world did she miss that earlier? 

Oh, that’s right, she was staring and mentally drooling, making her completely unaware of the rest of her surroundings. 

Darcy resists the urge to bury her face in her hands because, good grief, she’s not that sort of person. She prides herself on noticing small details and she’s not going to allow herself to lose that habit just because she’s lusting like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

Like right now, she’s aware and present enough in her mind to notice how Bowler Hat elbows Bucky in the side, good-naturedly, with the sort of jovial every man grin that only the truly happy in nature can pull off. Bucky gives her a smile, small and private and just for her, when he notices her watching. Darcy firmly ignores the warm feeling it brings, even if she can’t help but return it as she rolls her eyes and turns away.

Darcy finishes off her pre-flight and, with clearance, gets the plane in the air in short time. For the most part, the flight is relatively peaceful. Bucky stays strapped in his seat, making sure to pull Darcy into the conversation that’s flowing around them. Not putting her on the spot, thankfully, but making sure she’s in on the jokes and the stories, part of the ebb and flow that seems so natural for this group. It’s nice.

Or, it is until they run into a little company that isn’t so friendly.

Darcy swears under her breath as she hears the tink tink of bullets hitting metal, quickly taking action. She can just barely see the plane weaving behind her, solo, thankfully, from what she can tell. Must be a scout or a possible the lone return fighter from a mission gone wrong. Either way, he’s a surprise element because they’re in relatively boring territory. 

“Better hang on, boys,” she calls back. “And don’t throw up on my plane.”

“I hope she’s not serious,” the man in the bowler mutters. Darcy sends the plane into a quick and fast turn to the right, making it so the chasing plane has a harder time aiming. 

“Oh god, she’s serious,” the man mutters, ducking his head between his legs. “Jimmy boy, you have terrible taste in women.”

Darcy grins, but it quickly fades when she sees the black poofs of smoke in the air, accompanied by the familiar sound of anti-aircraft guns. She glances at her map laying on the dash, but there’s no base plotted for the area. Must be new enough that she’s gonna be the first lucky soul to greet them and she doesn’t even have a housewarming gift handy.

 _What’s the point of flying a bomber if there aren’t actually any bombs on it,_ she mentally grumbles. Then she pats the dash of the plane apologetically for her thoughts because it’s still one of her favorites, even though it’s a shark without the teeth right now.

“I’m guessing we didn’t know about this otherwise we would have taken the long way around,” Bucky comments from the back.

“Nope. But, we know now,” Darcy replies, making a hasty mental note about the location. She starts to pull the plane up, gaining enough altitude to be out of the range of the guns, when there’s another immediate spray of bullets from behind. “And I’m really starting to hate this pilot.”

“Why’s that?” Bucky asks before he amends. “I mean, besides the whole obvious shooting at us thing, which, it is war so we really can’t fault him.”

“He’s not actually trying to shoot us down,” Darcy tells him, still weaving the plane in and out of the enemy pilot’s firing range. A plan is forming in her mind as she tries to lay out the trajectory. “He’s corralling us towards the base.”

She can hear the understanding dawning in Bucky’s tone. “Letting the ground guns take care of the dirty work,” he says, admiration for enemy tactic coming through. “We’re faster, right? He’d lose us too quick if he tried to take us down on his own.”

Darcy nods. “He’s most likely recon for the area, but I can’t get a good enough look at his plane to know for sure.”

Recon and smart, Darcy acknowledges begrudgingly. Instead of wasting his time, energy, and bullets on trying to corner her, he just keeps her contained enough, either by flying over her when he can get close enough or sending a few shots in her direction anytime she tries to take the plane higher. He’s gonna let the guns on the ground do his dirty work, a tactic that she knows from stories around base works pretty well when executed correctly.

She’s determined not to let it work now.

“He can corner tighter because he’s smaller,” Darcy says to herself, but she knows she’s loud enough for Bucky to hear. She doesn’t mind, actually, and would willingly take his input at this point if he has any ideas. “That’s how he’s managing to keep up. And if I go straight too long when I can gain speed, that’s when he starts shooting to get me to weave. So, let’s see what happens when I do this,” she mutters, putting on speed.

“You know how you said I have terrible taste in women, Dum Dum?” Bucky says conversationally. Bowler Hat merely moans pathetically in acknowledgement, head still tucked between his legs. 

“‘Fraid I’m gonna have to disagree with you,” Bucky informs him. “Nothing better than a smart woman who can haul your ass out of the fire.”

Darcy hears the tink of gunfire once again, which signals that she was starting to pull away. Instead of pulling back on the speed before turning, she presses down on the throttle. She uses the speed to bank into the turn hard and fast, out of the direction of fire. The force throws the men against the walls of the plane, hard.

Bowler hat, Dum Dum, groans. “Nevermind, I take it all back. She’s perfect for you. You’re both reckless fools.”

“Now, on that, I completely agree,” Bucky replies. Darcy can hear the adrenaline and excitement rushing through his tone, so similar to what’s rushing through her own veins. “Hear that, Lewis?”

“That you just called me a reckless fool?” Darcy calls back, unable to help the giddy grin. She’s still pushing the throttle, gaining speed out of the turn and outstripping the enemy plane. “Pretty sure you just lost that advantage you had going for you, Barnes.”

“Nope, that was all Dum Dum. Personally, though, for the record, I like reckless fools,” Bucky informs her. She glances back quickly, raising an eyebrow. He winks. “Got a bit of a soft spot for them.”

Darcy flushes, turning away quickly. 

“Less banter, more flying and saving,” Dum Dum mutters weakly. “My stomach won’t thank you for it, but it’ll at least be alive to complain.”

Darcy laughs. “We’re already in the clear,” she tells him. “Does that mean we can go back to the banter?”

“Tell you what, Lewis,” Bucky goads. Darcy turns. She knows that tone and can already feel her back rising up to meet the challenge before it’s even issued. Bucky leans forward, arms resting on his knees, cocksure grin already in place. “That was a pretty nice trick. I’ll give you my next paycheck if you do it again.”

“I’ll give you my next two if you don’t,” Dum Dum interjects, finally raising his head weakly.

Darcy bites her lower lip, thinking. Though she loves a challenge, there’s no way Darcy’s accepting that bet, knowing where Bucky sends his money. She could be down to rubbing the last two pennies in her pocket together and she still wouldn’t take up that bet. Or, at least, she’s not accepting on those terms.

Darcy’s eyes catch on the handle of his Colt pressing against his side and the barrel of the rifle still sticking out over Bucky’s shoulder. It gives her an idea. Bucky’s a man armed to the teeth with weapons and she’s betting he knows how to use them. And that’s something in which she’s sorely lacking skill. She barely qualified when they had target practice on handguns for training. In the sky, she’s a decent shot. On the ground, though, if it ever gets down to her hand and a revolver, well, she better be praying for a full clip with a spare in her pocket because she’s going to need them.

“How’s the stomach, Dum Dum?” Darcy asks. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, then takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Make it fast.”

Darcy turns back to the front of the plane, dropping her shoulder to call out behind her. “Trade it for shooting lessons, some target practice, and you’ve got a deal,” she compromises, tossing out the suggestion before she can second-guess herself. 

And, if that means spending more time with Bucky, well, she doesn’t have to fess up as that being a secondary motivation. Besides, they’d have to be in the same place long enough for her to cash in on the reward and that’s not likely to happen.

“And what do I get?” he asks, smile spreading slow and sinful and full of so much promise. She can’t help but glance back. 

“When I win,” he clarifies with this cocky little head jaunt that Darcy probably shouldn’t find as endearing and alluring as she does.

“Don’t matter much, does it, considering we probably wouldn’t survive the flight if I can’t pull it off,” Darcy replies, unable to help the grin spreading on her face. 

Bucky juts his jaw forward. “Think you’re avoiding the answer, Lewis.”

Darcy meets his gaze with her face lowered, eyebrows raised in challenge, lips turned up. “Think I’m just pretty sure I’m going to win, Barnes.”

Bucky spreads his arms wide. “Let’s see it then. And I’ll just hold onto the win to cash in later, at my discretion.”

“I’m pretty sure you won’t need to worry about that,” Darcy remarks even as she starts pulling the plane up once again. There are a few agony filled moans as the plane gains altitude from the men who, remarkably, have stayed silent during her whole conversation with Bucky. They’re definitely making up by voicing their displeasure now, Darcy thinks with a grin. She turns just enough to see the look on Bucky’s face, pure pleasure and anticipation and adrenaline that only fuels her own mirrored feelings.

She can’t help but laugh at Bucky’s whoop of excitement as the plane pulls out of the turn, fast and hard and pushing like it’s breaking the laws of physics.

When they land, Bucky hangs back from the group to wait for Darcy to disembark. He falls into step with Darcy when she disembarks, walking to the tower. “So, when do you want to set up our date?”

“It’s a date now, huh?” Darcy can’t help but ask, arching an eyebrow.

Bucky shrugs gamely. “Ain’t much for movies over here and if we went dancing, I’d have to glare off every other guy in the bar. Wouldn’t get much time for looking at you, then.”

“Much better than your first line, Barnes,” Darcy replies, grinning briefly before she shakes her head. She pushes aside the twinge of disappointment she can already feel aching in her chest as she continues. “You don’t have to worry though, I don’t have to call in the reward.”

Bucky’s brow furrows and his shoulders slump slightly. He places his hand lightly on her elbow, pulling her to a stop. Darcy gets a glance at his face and thinks, for a moment, that he’s upset, but maybe she’s reading her own feelings into his actions.  
“And why’s that, Lewis?” he asks.

Darcy waves her hand, gesturing to their surroundings. “When would we even get a chance?” she asks. “I’m heading out right now on another transport as soon as I drop off this paperwork. God only knows where you’re going from here. When are we gonna even cross paths again?”

“You worry too much, Lewis,” Bucky answers with a grin. “You do these transport missions all the time, yeah? Well, I have enough specialty missions that I’m gonna need a lot of transporting.”

Darcy rolls her eyes even as she feels the flutter of hope. If he’s working as a scout or a sniper, then yes, she knows from her own flights the amount of missions those special assignments can rack up. “You can’t have someone assigned as a personal pilot, Barnes.”

“Nope,” he says, leaning back on his heels. “But when you’re a sergeant in this great army, you learn who to cozy up to and how to get what you want and what your troops need. It’s not the pull of command, but it’s sometimes better because people will do more for you when they like you than if they’re just ordered to do it. Won’t happen all the time,”he cautions, “but we can cross paths again, if you want.”

Which leaves the ball in her court, something Darcy appreciates. It’s her play, her option. She could walk away now and Bucky’d be a gentleman about it. But, if she wants to pursue this, whatever this is or could possibly be, he’s willing to do it. 

She thinks about the flutter in her stomach when she first saw him on the tarmac, how that flutter hasn’t dissipated, at all. Instead, it’s threatening to become a permanent warm feeling in the pit of her belly. A little bit of the sense that, in this moment, in this small corner of the world, everything is right. 

Darcy knows she still has the foolhardy grin on her face that comes from a great flight except, this time, she realizes, it has less to do with the mission and more with the man standing in front of her. A foolhardy grin that has a matching set on Bucky’s expression, only enhanced by the wishful hope in his eyes. Giddy energy, an adrenaline high that a junkie like her can’t ignore, zips through her, leaving her feeling like she’s about to leap off a cliff or run a marathon. 

Like her body can’t keep her energy, her very soul, contained.

It’s been so long since she’s had interest in a guy, even longer since he’s shown interest back. She’s forgotten how addictive, how good, this can feel.

Darcy wants as many of these moments as she can get.

“Yeah,” she says, deciding to take the chance. She grins, Bucky’s face cracking into a responding one that looks like victory, like happiness, like everything warm. “I want that.”


End file.
